Bite Me
by HeartsandEyesDelight
Summary: It had to be done. The cliche, but so very entertaining, "Grissom is a vampire" plot line. Lots of GSR!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own CSI or any of the other media--books, etc.--that are mentioned in this story.

I do not plan to update with any regularity, but I appreciate reviews all the same. They make my day! :)

This was very hastily proof-read, so there are probably mistakes and typos, and they're all mine.

Also, I make a lot of references to GSR moments, but for the purposes of this story, they may not occur in the correct order...

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Chapter One: Distraction

They were working. He was focusing—or trying to—despite the distraction of his companion. She hummed softly as she dusted the kitchen counter for finger prints, her soft, chocolate brown hair swinging forward every time she bent down—whether to write on a print she had just lifted, or to resume dusting. He could smell the chemical smell of the permanent marker she used to write, and the vanilla of her shampoo, and the dusty smell of the powder.

He took another deep breath, sifting for any other odors that would stand out—maybe give him a clue as to who had killed the poor girl he was crouched in front of. She sprawled out on the couch, her blood staining the white fabric beneath her—this smell was much stronger than the others, but he disregarded it, looking for something more telling; of course a murder victim would smell like blood.

He could detect the faint smell of a cat—not one who had lived here. Maybe the smell had come in on the killer's body? Maybe the girl had a friend with a cat… maybe her friend's cat had been here in the last few months… His eyes flickered back to his distraction—she had begun to dust around the wall separating the refrigerator from the dining room. It was a spot that wasn't likely to have been wiped down, but which people touched unconsciously as they moved from one room into the next.

He smiled softly, impressed. She was _very_ good at her job—as good as he thought a human could be; ordered, precise, methodical, and at times, like in the case of the refrigerator wall, inspired. His eyes surveyed her face softly, knowing that her being a distraction was as much his fault as it was hers…he indulged in it.

He could see each delicate line of her face—the small, round pieces of powder from the make-up that had been applied too hastily—each chocolate strand of hair, separate and distinct and unerringly lovely. She felt his gaze, and looked up from her work, surprised. "What's up?"

He half-smiled, not allowing himself to look embarrassed that she'd noticed him. "I just glanced up… saw that little corner by the fridge. That was smart."

She beamed, always so receptive to his praise. It worried him—her overwhelming receptivity. He mentally reminded himself to compliment her less, no matter how well he enjoyed the smile it provoked. She returned to her work, and he forced himself to return to his, processing in silence until her humming began again. It was another hour before they walked from the home and he could breathe deeply again—the smell of the blood had sickened him, like spoilt milk or moldy bread, and he was glad to remove himself.

It was a strange profession to have chosen—considering his aversion to blood from a dead body—but he had felt his unique strengths and abilities were most judiciously applied where they were most desperately needed—he gave people justice. The car doors slammed closed as he and his brunette companion seated themselves and he started the SUV. He heard every click and turn of all the various engine parts as well as her sigh when he turned the ignition—but he did not feel like he could ask. She indulged him, seeing his eyes flicker towards her at the sound.

"That was a tough scene… she was so young."

He did not remind her to distance herself from the victim—she had expounded on her thoughts because of _his_ silent inquiry, after all.

"Eighteen." He spoke heavily. "It was probably her first apartment."

Sara Sidle smiled, despite the bleakness of the conversation. "I remember mine… Although, I'd already been living in the dorms for a year and half, so I don't know if that counts…"

He smiled, enjoying the sound of her voice—his own mind already formulating imaginings of a younger, softer Sara. The corner of his lip twisted—she was probably a harder person back then—finally living in a home she could call her own and working her ass off to dig herself out of her father's grave and her mother's weaknesses.

She looked up at him when he didn't respond. "What was your first place like?" He considered her question, and surprised himself by answering honestly, although she did not truly know the story the honesty told.

"Meager…only what I could afford. But it was enough."

Enough. Enough to keep the rain from his head and the beasts in the forests, but not a home—before Sara Sidle, it still would have been enough. Now, he realized, it never could be. He did not expound these thoughts to her, however—she was too smart—she picked up on little details, things he didn't think he'd let her know until she demonstrated that she did. It didn't help that she paid more attention to him than even to her cases… she was too aware of him. It was discomforting.

She nodded, her eyes lost in a faraway look. Perhaps she too was imagining him younger and softer—less concerned with evidence than with sheer gut instinct. She had never known him to be this way, yet the way she spoke to him sometimes implied that she sensed it… she knew that he had once been passionate and foolish and excitable. He just didn't know how she could know such a thing. The conversation had lulled and he found himself wondering how to start it up again. He wanted to hear more about her—her thoughts, her first place, even her silent assessments of him as they drove back to the crime lab.

"What was yours like…? The apartment, not the dorm."

She turned, surprised. It was unlike him to ask about her personal life unless there were no other alternative. She smiled softly, eyes moving up and to the right as she tried to remember details.

"Small… I painted it yellow, even though my landlord said I couldn't paint…"

"Why yellow?" His voice came soft now—he watched the flicker of emotions in her eyes out of the side of his own, not having realized before now how desperate he was to know every detail of her life—every place she had ever touched.

The corner of her mouth twisted. "I was sick of hiding in pink, but I couldn't stand to exist in nothingness either. Dark colors were… dark. Yellow made the place seem bigger…brighter…more hopeful."

He did not ask, but she knew he understood her meaning. The most personal conversation they'd ever had—the only time he'd been in her present apartment—had explained the haunted look behind every emotion her eyes expressed. Before her mother had killed her father, she had hidden the proof of his indiscretions that traced, black and blue, up her daughter's arms, in new clothes—always, always pink, because they were feminine and made her mother think of bubblegum rather than abuse.

Her words had sent them both back to her living room that night, and the silence returned.

Eventually, she broke it, continuing the conversation that had been briefly forgotten. "I moved in with no furniture but my bed and the small television I'd bought for the dorm room. I furnished it within a few months… it felt like I was filling myself up, leaving no room for the past, as I filled the rooms with the present."

"Is it the same furniture you have now?" She shook her head slowly.

"I finally realized that I was still empty, no matter how cluttered my home became."

He did not know what to say to this—though one would think that his years would have afforded him more tact—and the quiet returned. They pulled into the parking lot of the crime lab then, and she gave him a reluctant smile as she stepped out, collecting their evidence and bringing it inside. He allowed himself one shaking breath—drawing in the lasting smell of vanilla—and then got out as well, moving into the lab to finish out the graveyard shift, kicking himself.

Every time he allowed himself to get close to her… every time he allowed her to get close to him… he would eventually reach a point at which he could go no further, and would retreat and detach, and the haunting would show more clearly in her eyes for a few weeks. It was a tribute to his patience, his self-control, his unerring willpower that he could keep himself from her at all. He loved her… and those coffee eyes betrayed that she might, somehow, feel something for him too.

He interrupted his own thoughts, reprimanding himself. It didn't matter how either of them felt—there were a thousand reasons why Gil Grissom could not love Sara Sidle, and only the smallest and simplest of these could even be explained to her. He bustled angrily through the lab, meeting with his various CSI's to check up on their cases, and then retreated to his office to calm himself in the quiet there.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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Chapter Two: Greg and Grissom

Sara sighed as she logged in evidence and distributed it to the respective labs to be processed. She was always over-talking around Grissom. She had simply wanted to converse with him—wanted to feel close to him again, and then she was spouting off about her troubled childhood to the only person in her adult life who knew and she'd made him uncomfortable. She wouldn't want to keep talking to herself either. She didn't know why he had this effect on her… It had been that way ever since they'd met. He'd been a speaker at a forensic anthropology conference, and she'd been getting her masters at Berkley. Of course she had attended—he had been one of the biggest names in forensics… hell, he was even more respected now than he was then. Their lab was one of the best in the country and he had been instrumental in that achievement.

What she had not expected was to be enthralled by the man behind the science—the articulation in his voice, which came soft and slow and deliberate—the unruly curls like a salt and pepper halo, framing the most breathtaking eyes she had ever seen. They were so expressive… and the way he spoke filled her up in a way she had never been filled before. She hadn't felt empty for the first time she could remember in almost an entire lifetime, just with his voice and his logic and his unerring devotion to justice and the evidence and the inevitability of the science winning out. If she had ever questioned her career of choice prior to that moment, such a thing no longer registered. How could she do anything else with such beautiful truths swirling around inside her, and enticing her to be better than she was?

She had wanted to ask him out—she'd gone up when he had finished speaking with the premise of asking a question, hoping a conversation would develop naturally and she could work up the courage to ask him to dinner. Even at the time, she realized she was likely to be disappointed—why would the famous Gil Grissom go out to dinner with someone still several months from graduating and entering the field? But she talked herself up while waiting for others to finish speaking to him—she was younger than him, which ought to add to her appeal, right? She had never viewed herself as particularly pretty, but she had been pursued a great deal since coming to college, and this convinced her that there was something desirable about her, even if she couldn't see it.

She had taken a deep breath and approached him, the anthropology question falling from her lips with more ease than she could have expected. It had been _easy_ to talk to him… but the nerves didn't die, and so she asked follow-up questions and referenced some of the more famous cases he had worked on, not wanting to let him know she knew every detail of many more obscure ones—when she had done the research, it had been in an attempt to prepare herself to get the full experience from his lecture, but now that they were face-to-face, it felt like it would be too telling; he would see how badly she wanted him. He had seemed interested…enthralled, really, in their conversation and she felt herself relaxing. She mentioned cases she'd worked on or observed and he opined on them, adding so much more insight than the people she had worked with had been able to glean from the evidence. He was so inspiring! And, relaxed now, she asked to keep in touch with him—leaning over to write her name on the conference pamphlet in his hand, followed by a phone number and an email address.

He had smiled an amazing smile and she felt his intensely blue eyes pierce her with something stronger than she'd ever been witness to. The dinner invitation was at her lips when they were interrupted—an older woman, closer to his age, approached, grasping his shoulder a little too comfortably. She was older than Sara, but she didn't look worse for it—she had a shapelier figure, long blonde hair, and much lighter brown eyes than Sara's…they were golden honey and brown sugar.

He turned to acknowledge her, and Sara lost her nerve, taking in all that she must be up against. How much a child she must seem to him—much younger than the average grad student—and nowhere near being the kind of woman he must be used to. Grissom had turned back to Sara, and she had smiled and admirably shook his hand, thanking him for speaking with her and agreeing to keep in touch…professionally. He had smiled—a little too knowingly—and told her she didn't need to keep calling him 'Dr. Grissom.'

She had looked at a loss, not sure what to call him, and he had laughed. It was a deep and contented laugh, no mocking implied. "Just Grissom is fine. It's what everyone calls me… I'll talk to you later…Sara. It was really nice to meet you."

He had seemed very sincere, and she had walked away slowly, replaying every nuance in his words over in her mind when she heard the blonde speak again. "Here's your coffee, Dr. Grissom. Is there anything else we can do for you?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you. It was an honor just to be invited to speak."

She turned in alarm, realizing too late that the woman must work for the committee who found speakers for the conference. But he was already moving out of the hall, a myriad of people blocking the path between them.

She had lost her chance.

With a deep sigh, she brought herself back to the present. No, she'd always been more open with this man than anyone else…even before he'd asked her to come to Las Vegas to help him—a CSI had died, and he wanted someone outside the lab who he trusted to investigate. Of course she had come—how could she not? And then she'd been offered a job…at one of the best labs in the country, working under the most brilliant man she had ever known. The right corner of her mouth pulled up sadly—how could she have refused such an offer? It was a dream job, but she had now spent years longing for a man who wasn't interested or, on the rare occasions that he had seemed interested, had too much to lose and too little to gain.

She jumped when Greg put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, Sara, you okay? You seem like you're somewhere else."

She immediately smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes. He wasn't fooled, and she knew he wasn't, but neither commented on that. "No, just a little tired. You should hook me up with some… _Blue Hawaiian._"

He put on a face of shock. "How do you know about that?"

A real smile rose to her lips at his playful banter. "You know you can't hide anything from me…"

He chuckled. "I'll share…I'll even go brew you a fresh cup…for a price."

His eyes flashed but she did not seem as alarmed by his demands as he intended her to be. She leaned up, without hesitation, and kissed his cheek gently. "Thanks, Greggo. You're my hero."

He rolled his eyes and exaggeratedly slumped his shoulders and stomped from the room and she giggled. If it weren't for her lab family, she didn't know what she would have done. She had moved to Vegas for a man who couldn't love her. At least she had found some other companionship in the desert.

He returned five minutes later, carrying the mug like a large, precious jewel and set it ever-so gently on the table in front of her.

"Thanks Greg," She said, reaching for it, but his hand remained over the top of the mug, holding it in place. She looked up at him, confused, and he was gently tapping his other cheek expectantly. She giggled and kissed it willingly, pulling away before he'd gotten the chance to turn his head and change the playful atmosphere she treasured. His eyes narrowed as she outsmarted him, sipping smugly, but he couldn't stay mad at her.

"What're you working on?"

"Eighteen year old girl was murdered in her apartment…"

"Who called it in?"

"Her mother. She came over to drop off some things the girl had left at home when she moved and add a few groceries to the girl's cupboards. She said she'd talked to her daughter…four, five hours before our TOD."

Greg sat down beside her, looking at the file in front of her. "First Witness—First Suspect. Do you think she did it?"

She gave a wry smile. "I dunno. We'll see what the evidence says… speaking of, don't you have DNA to be processing?"

He gave her a wounded look and put a hand to his heart. She just raised an eyebrow.

"I'm on break. Give me some credit."

She had smiled, nudging his shoulder with her own, and then the smile faded. "Oh, Greg, go relax on your break, make some food… you shouldn't be making me coffee or—"

He interrupted her. "Trust me, I _am_ enjoying my break." He swung an arm over her shoulders. "I'm with my best girl."

She laughed. "I think I'm your _only_ girl…and _I'm_ not even really…"

"Where are we?" Grissom's voice came from behind the pair, and she jumped, Greg's arm sliding off her immediately. She turned to look at him standing in the doorway behind her, feeling guilty—like she'd been caught cheating. He looked at her kind of like she had been, too.

"I, uh, was just going over our findings in more depth until some of our results came in…trace is swamped right now, and you were down with the body…"

His eyes took in the guilty look on her face and then turned to Greg. "Trace might not be so swamped if DNA had someone to spare…"

His voice squeaked when he responded, but he stood up for himself. "I'm… I'm on break, Grissom. OSHA and all that…"

Grissom paused, his lips pursed. "Well, you shouldn't be distracting Sara then…" Sara blushed and Greg flashed her an apologetic look as he quickly left the room. Grissom did not acknowledge her blush as he moved closer, taking the seat that Greg had vacated. "Anything standing out?"

She took a deep breath. "Her age…"

He set a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him in alarm, the tension between them tangible once more—it always was, if they were close. "You can't get personally attached to every victim, Sara. I don't want you to burn out… I don't want you feeling guilty."

She had met his intensely blue gaze while he spoke, but in the silence that followed, her eyes flickered back and forth between them and his lips—they looked soft. He gave away his mutual involvement in the tense moment by unconsciously licking his lips, maddeningly aware of her attention there. He swallowed hard, sitting back in the chair and removing his hand from her shoulder before he did something they would both regret. "…Let me know if you find anything…" He muttered, trying to block out the poorly-hidden look of surprise and hurt that had raced across her features when he broke the moment.

She nodded. He left the room, and she struggled to focus again—if there was anything that could rival how she felt about the man who had just left her, it was the job she was presently neglecting. So she buried herself in evidence, taking the results from the different labs into a layout room and trying to connect the dots.

She hadn't left yet when Grissom knocked on the door to the layout room and told her that shift had ended over an hour ago. She half-smiled, sheepish, telling him that she knew but—"Go home, Sara," had been his response. So she reluctantly sealed all her evidence and put it away, making her way out to her car slowly. He was right behind her, passing in front of her little silver car to move to his SUV. She had the urge to ask him to get breakfast…since they'd both stayed so long after shift… but the thought dragged in her throat, and by the time it reached her lips, he was in his vehicle.

She drove home, not truly realizing how tired she had been until she unlocked the door and took off her shoes. The carpet felt good on her feet as she padded into the living room and flicked on her television. It was already on her favorite news channel, so she tossed the remote to the couch and made her way into her little kitchen, listening to the news anchor reel off the horrors of the day. She made a bowl of cereal and poured herself a glass of apple juice before seating herself on the couch and changing the channel. She'd had enough bad news for one night. She managed to find a morning show that wasn't completely mind-numbing, and ate quickly, feeling the exhaustion of a long night creeping into her eyes and limbs. She swallowed the last drops of juice, put her dishes in the dishwasher, and clicked off the TV.

Even though she was exhausted, she made herself shower before bed. She hated the idea that she was carrying the crime scenes into her home with her, but she wouldn't let them into her bed. Once clean, she curled up under a white comforter and fell immediately to sleep, despite her wet hair. She awoke in surprise to a knocking on her door—having fallen asleep in only a tank top and underwear, she scrambled into pajama pants, looking frantically at the clock, worried she was late.

It was only three in the afternoon…she still had hours to sleep. She was suddenly very upset at whoever continued to pound at the door—her sleep had been dreamless, and it was rare to get rest without the nightmares. She stomped over, her hair still damp and in messy curls that she had to straighten out daily. She swung the door open angrily—and felt the anger fall out of her at a great speed. Grissom stood in her doorway.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own.

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Chapter Three:

"Oh." She said in surprise, staring at him and then quickly crossing her arms across her chest, but not quickly enough. The smallest hint of a smile glanced across his lips, but it was gone in a moment. She looked to his eyes instead—they were the most expressive part of his face—and saw the twinkle of amusement there. It should have made her angry, but she felt herself blushing instead. "Grissom… I, uh…wasn't expecting you."

He waited for a moment, and then dipped his head in a question when she didn't invite him in. She stared at him blankly, and then realized, stepping back and holding the door open. "I'm sorry, Griss. Come on in." He smiled and stepped in and let her close the door behind him. She was alarmingly aware of her state of undress and hesitated, and then spoke. "Uh…why don't you have a seat, make yourself at home? I'm just…gonna throw another shirt on…" Her cheeks were red again, and his lips twitched.

"Thanks. No rush…"

She returned not thirty second later with a thin, white, long-sleeved, cotton shirt over the dark blue tank top. "Can I get you anything? Juice, coffee, water?"

He smiled. "No, Sara. I'm good. Will you come and sit for a moment?"

She nodded, taking a seat on the side of the couch closest to the chair he had seated himself in. She looked at him, worrying slightly now. He had only been to her apartment one time previously, and it had been bad news then. When he did not speak, her eyebrows raised in a question and he sighed heavily, unable to avoid this any longer. "I'm… I'm taking you off the Briar case."

She physically recoiled from his words as if he'd struck her. He was surprised by the force of her reaction, but Sara could not even consider how strange it was that she would respond so noticeably. "What? …W-..why?"

He took a deep breath. "It isn't because of anything you did, Sara. The…circumstances…have changed. I'll be finishing the case myself."

Her eyes narrowed. "By yourself…?"

His eyebrows raised at the question, but she didn't care. Grissom was always paired with another CSI… it meant that he could go do supervisory things while they did the reports and waited around on evidence.

"I don't understand."

"It's just… personal. Something I need to take care of."

She argued still, uncertain why she had a lingering feeling of mistrust. "If it's personal to you, you should be off the case and _I_ should be taking it alone…"

He met her eyes for a moment, but turned away. "Sara…my decision in final. I just…didn't want to tell you at work, and you never answer your phone during the day…"

She grumbled—when was the last time he'd actually tried to call her number when she was at home? He smiled a little at her reaction. "I'll have another case for you tonight…you can take it alone, if you like. I don't want you to think this is because of anything you've done; it isn't. I'll…see you later." He stood, hesitated, glancing back at her, and then walked himself to the door and let himself out.

It did not take her more than five minutes to sift through what had just happened—if she believed Grissom was telling the truth, and she had no reason to believe he wasn't, then there was something about this case that he didn't want her to know… something he didn't want anyone to know. And though she knew it was a bad idea—that she was risking the most important thing in her life—her job—she couldn't help wanting to know what it was with a longing so great it was like hunger after days without a meal, and she knew from firsthand experience how that felt.

So she quickly dressed—dark wash jeans and a plain, dark blue shirt, the sleeves going just past her elbows. She didn't bother to straighten her hair, even though it was frizzy, instead just brushing it and forcing it into a ponytail at the back of her head. It had not been a full fifteen minutes since Grissom had left the house, and she herself was ready to leave.

She arrived at the lab and tried not to look too conspicuous—she was often here early, there was no reason for day shift to be suspicious. And none of the night lab techs would have arrived yet, so there wouldn't be anyone to mention to Grissom that she'd been here. She threw her things into her locker and quickly moved from lab to lab, printing the information collected from each piece of evidence recovered but leaving the evidence itself in place—to remove it she would have to sign off that she'd taken it, unless she wanted the chain of custody to be broken and the evidence thrown out… but she didn't want Grissom to know what she was doing.

She took the information to an empty layout room and began to dig—the coroner's report, her toxicology screen, fingerprints recovered, trace evidence… the fingerprints were a dead end—no matches in the database, and the toxicology screen was clean as well. There was very little trace—a few stray fibers, remarkable enough to lead them nowhere—they would need a subject to try to match it to. The coroner's report was the only thing that seemed to indicate anything—cause of death was due to blood loss. She had bled out from a wound to her neck, though Doc. Robbins had commented, in an almost confused tone, she mused, that the wound to her neck should have caused her to bleed out much quicker than she did. It was almost as if she had bled through a smaller wound, and the bigger one had been made when she was very, very near death already.

She might not have thought anything of this—blown it off as a part of the struggle—the second wound had just happened to widen the first—except that she had been reading Interview with a Vampire a few weeks previously. For some reason it had been circling in her mind, and the wound was right over the girl's jugular vein. Unbidden, the thought came to her mind—what if the second wound were made to disguise the fang marks? She shook her head, trying to clear it. She had once been convinced an old lady had spontaneously combusted until she and Warrick had burned a pig in a nightgown behind the lab—proving that the woman had burned to death by her cigarette lighting her nightgown on fire. She did not want to be foolish again.

But the thought was stuck there, a constant echo in the back of her mind, like the drip from a leaky faucet in the silence of the night. And as she went through her papers, it became more prominent. There was no sign of forced entry—Vampires could not enter a residence without being asked in, no matter how many doors they broke open. There was a large mirror that had been above the girl's fireplace… it had been shattered in the struggle.

The object which had caused her fatal wound was unclear—no tool marks, no shape to the weapon, no clean lines. Almost as if the skin had just been ripped away from her body—but who was that strong? Despite the mirror, which would normally indicate a struggle, the girl did not seem to have fought her attacker at all. She had no skin or fibers under her fingernails, no defensive wounds, no tear tracks on her face; almost like she'd been controlled in some way—but again, no sign of any drugs in her system.

Why break the mirror if the victim didn't struggle? Why not struggle? Why let the person in? They usually assumed that, with no sign of forced entry, the victim knew her attacker… but this didn't feel right. The mom said she didn't have a boyfriend, all her close friends were away for college, and she had just moved to Vegas from L.A. for school herself. She wouldn't know anyone here… She didn't even have any bruising, as if she'd been restrained… It was like someone walked in and convinced her to go lay on the couch while they bled her to death.

With a sigh of frustration, she piled the evidence back together, knowing that Grissom would be coming in soon—he was always here early—and moved it into the purse hanging in her locker, to peruse at home. She locked the locker—something she rarely did—and let herself move to the break room to mull the case over without worrying about being caught. She stole some of Greg's Hawaiian Blue, reminding herself to let him know—he weighed it before and after each pot he made himself ever since he realized Nick and Warrick were sneaking it. She smiled softly, sitting down with her cup and a crossword in front of her, knowing that sometimes answers came when your brain was not focusing directly on them.

She was not wrong—Grissom entered the break room not fifteen minutes after she had sat herself down and looked surprised to find her there. "You're here early…"

He poured himself a cup of coffee while he spoke, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. "Yeah, well, someone woke me up early… I got sick of waiting to come in, so I figured I'd get some coffee, do a crossword, see if I could start on my new case early. You got anything for me yet?"

His eyebrows were slightly raised in puzzlement. "Yeah, I do, actually. DB at a mental facility in Henderson." He caught the flicker in her eye, and hurried to explain. "It was that or a B&E down the street. I figured I owed you the bigger case. If you're not comfortable with it…"

"No! No, I am. That's great. Did you want me to head over there now?" He shook his head.

"I figured you could wait 'til Greg got here, take him along as a Cadet. It's a large hospital so I figured you would need an extra body, at least for the initial processing. It would be good for him to learn from you."

She chuckled softly. "Okay, I'll wait for Greggo then…"

He nodded, looking as if he was about to leave, but then changed his mind, sitting in the chair beside her instead. "Sara…" He looked troubled—and uncertain if he wanted to finish his sentence. Her interest peaked.

"What is it, Griss?" His mouth twisted.

"I guess… I was just wondering if there was something going on between you and Greg." Her heart pounded as her eyes traced over and over his face, trying to understand the motive behind this question. He did not let her wonder for long, continuing, "If there were… I would have him start training with days instead, since he wouldn't be able to stay on graveyard…"

She sighed, disappointed. "No, there's nothing going on. Greg just hits on anything with two legs and a vagina and I'm the only one in the lab who fits the requirements and finds it funny rather than annoying."

He watched her face for a long moment and, seeming satisfied, nodded. "Okay. I know it isn't any of my business, Sara… I was just looking out for the lab."

She nodded. "I know. I understand that… and it… it doesn't bother me. When it comes to you, I don't seem to have any secrets…" This was not entirely true, especially after her activities this afternoon, but she had not wanted to clarify and give herself away—the sentiment was the same. Her business was his business, if he wanted it.

He smiled at that—too brightly—and nodded. He glanced at her crossword—"Twenty-three across, 'mendacity'." She looked up at him in alarm, and his smile faded, but he left the room without another word, coffee in hand.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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Chapter Four:

He sat in his office, his mind reeling. She had lied to him—listening to her heart rate increase as she spoke had given her away, no polygraph needed, thank you very much! He replayed the conversation in his head. She had lied when she explained why she was here early… and her heart rate had sped up when he mentioned Greg, but not when she told him they weren't together. He let his eyes roam about the room as he considered these things.

Perhaps she was attracted to Greg—why was it that his flirtations didn't irritate her? But then, he could not prevent her from being with any other man when he refused to claim her… He had no right to be upset.

But more importantly, Sara did not lie to him, almost as a rule. When Catherine had had a bad day and he asked what was wrong—she lied when she told him she was fine. Sara did not even do this… the word 'fine' slipping from her lips not even a full second before an explanation of why she was not fine slid out too. What could be going on to bring her here early, to make her lie to him?

He pictured her there, in the break room, a shining vision of beauty and perfection—hair curling, unruly, at the nape of her neck, struggling for life against her ponytail—her chocolate eyes as they flashed to him and away—the sultry lips defining a mouth that was more telling than even her eyes, failing to hide that which her eyes had learned to disguise. What, exactly, was she keeping from him?

The answer came to him unexpectedly quickly, despite his apparent frustration a moment previous. She was still working the case he'd tried to throw her off of. It was so simple, so obvious… so Sara. He wanted to be angry with her—disobeying a direct command from her supervisor—but the flame burned cool and faded quickly. He should have expected this… His only consolation was that there was very little evidence to go on thus far, and the attacker had at least been prudent enough to destroy any trace of what he really was. She couldn't possibly figure out, from the information she would have now, what the attacker was… and without that, she certainly couldn't make the connection between his traits and Grissom's own…

He had been so careful for so many years—surely it would not all come crashing down today because of the curiosity of one human woman?

Pandora all over again—how very Sara Sidle.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: They're not mine, but I like to play...

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Chapter Five:

Sara did not look into Grissom's case again—the mental hospital case had eaten up all of her time for nearly a week, and by then the Briar case had been closed. It was harder to discreetly examine evidence that was not readily available around the lab, and she decided it wasn't worth the risk—she would just keep an eye out for similar cases. However, the seed had been planted in her head, and it was struggling against her better judgment to sprout up in her brain.

Needless to say, the sprout won. She now spent her free time between shifts looking up Vampire lore rather than reading her forensic journals, trying to cumulate a series of common traits between the varied myths around the world. She came up with a list, rereading Bram Stoker's Dracula in detail to supplement her piecemeal internet research, and then spent several weeks obsessing over every possible detail.

Sara was not a religious woman, not because she was angry, though she had much to be angry about, but because she followed science instead—with a fervency and devotion that could rival the pope's devotion to his God. But this did not mean that the supernatural must be ruled out—it just needed proper explanation. She herself had doubted Grissom's insistence that a construction worker had been electrocuted—he lacked any of the typical signs of electrocution—until he took a power source to a pickle and showed how, with enough saline in the body, the electricity would not leave marks on the body any more than they did on the pickle. Just because something did not follow the normal course and nature of science as she understood it did not mean that it couldn't happen—it just needed further exploration. Science was a study of revisions and corrections and evolution of ideas—that was part of its appeal.

She waited over a month before breeching the subject with her mentor—hoping in part to gain his opinion, but also to gauge his reaction to the subject matter. If he were concealing something, would his eyes not betray him? She hoped so. But she must be subtle, and calm. She took Dracula to work early with her that night—a Tuesday, usually a slow night—and made sure she walked past Grissom's office when moving from the locker room to the break room to brew fresh coffee. She set the novel, well-worn, at her usual chair at the table and moved to the counter, pretending to be oblivious when he walked in behind her. She poured a cup and, turning, raised her eyebrows at him. "Hey. You want a cup? It's fresh…"

She watched him as he nodded and poured himself a cup, his eyes flickering from the book to Sara and back again. "You're here early…"

She shrugged. "I was bored at home…" She sat down, sliding the book closer to herself and pretending to flip it open in search of the right page.

"You're reading…you can't be that bored." She glanced up at him.

"I'm sorry, I can put it away… I'm not clocked in yet, and I figured until you passed out assignments… Tuesdays are just always slow, and I've kind of been obsessing on the topic lately."

She lifted the book when she referenced her obsession, and his eyebrows rose. He set his coffee on the table and seated himself beside her once again.

"Oh? I thought you were more interested in reality than fiction…"

His hands fluttered awkwardly as he spoke and he ran his fingers over his chin at least twice, trying to keep his face expressionless. She smiled a little sheepishly.

"Yeah, I know, not very scientific of me, right? I just… I read Interview with a Vampire again maybe a month and a half ago, and it got me thinking on the idea of an entire subgroup of society coexisting without our knowledge. It's not entirely impossible… researchers discover new species in the oceans and the rainforests all the time…"

He smiled, turning his coffee cup slowly between his palms. "Ah, so you _are_ being scientific about it. How very like you."

She grinned. "Well, I'm trying… I toyed with the possibility of an evolutionary relative—other hominoids who existed around the time that homo-erectus appeared… but very little vampire lore includes reproduction, which is at the core of evolution… and then, there's the issue of immortality. How can they exist as a separate and different, but concrete and tangible, life form when there is no life line?"

He nodded. "A logical person would take these problems and determine that the Vampire is just a myth, perpetuated by fear, the shameless human fascination with death and the desire to live beyond it."

She shook her head, almost disdainfully. "Yeah, I knew you'd say that…"

He watched her almost indignantly, feeling a rising greed in his chest that he had occupied her here, all to himself. He wanted to keep her here—he wanted to touch her as carelessly as Greg did, just to see if her eyes—her mouth—would reveal the same humor there, or something else, lurking beneath the surface. "What do you mean?" He responded, so much more hiding just behind those lips.

She tilted her head to the side, looking a little reluctant, but answered him anyway. "You… rarely entertain the idea of something existing beyond scientific norms… only when _you're_ convinced by it—like the pickle you electrocuted—do you look for evidence to fit a theory, rather than the other way around. For the most part, it's a good thing… but this is… I dunno, _my_ pickle, you know?"

He held her eyes for a long moment, only allowing his eyes to flicker to her mouth once—the lips were set, determined, but not so hard that they held out no hope for his reconsideration. He sighed dramatically, as if this were a great chore for him. "Alright, let's work backwards. We've determined that it is possible, if improbable, for a subgroup to exist in society and go undetected. Evolution seems to be out. So it would have to be… a transformation, like the legends, right? Do we have any scientific evidence that such a thing in possible?"

She shrugged, grinning at his participation. It made her happy. "Well, caterpillars have been turning into butterflies for centuries, right? Metamorphosis is certainly possible… but no, I don't think there's any evidence of it incurring by means of transference, although the rabies virus can create literal zombies…"

He smiled, enjoying this more than he knew he ought to. "Okay, so we table the issue… what's next?"

She sat up, letting the book slip from her fingers, excited. "Well, I mentioned immortality… I wonder though, if they're really immortal. I actually… well, I thought of you, when I was thinking out this theory."

"Oh?"

She blushed a little, but the color suited her cheeks. "Well, I remember you saying, when that body was found at the body farm, that there was an insect with the second longest lifespan of any insect… but their lifespan was minimal—a fraction of a fraction or our own. Insects are a part of the animal kingdom, just like we are…yet to them, we must seem like immortals… Maybe the lifespan of the vampire is just longer than ours—so much longer that it seems they cannot die. I mean, if a stake through the heart kills them, they _have_ to be mortal, right?"

He considered this. "I suppose you're right—but why would the stake idea have ever occurred if their lives were as fragile as our own?"

"Maybe they're just… tougher. Skin and muscle and stretching sinew, like us, but more durable, somehow. Like…the bug idea, again… I can step on a bug, and it will die…smush beneath me… but if I step on you, with equal force, it probably wouldn't even hurt. But, being still mortal and with a human body as the foundation of their existence, at the very least, a stake through the heart is a certain death… More primitive man may not have known how to explain the strength of an adversary who looked so like themselves, and instead determined that only a stake to the heart could do the job, because so many other ways had failed…"

"Ah, but there's the rub. If a human body is the foundation, even if metamorphosis changes the strength of the body and even the aging, the lifecycle, all the normal bodily functions would need to continue, would they not? I didn't think Vampires had beating hearts…"

"Well, how many people have had the chance to check their pulse and lived to tell about it, really? I mean, if they are predator and we are prey… Maybe… maybe a good deal of the myths have to be put into question—Is it the true nature of the creature, or the mystique built up around it by those who feared what they could not understand? What if the body continues to function as normal, with the exception of the digestive system? When blood is devoured, it could be absorbed directly, and nourish the body in that way… there are known animals that drink blood, after all."

"But that's a fallacy. We are trying to prove that the vampire can exist based on the myths which surround it—to dismiss a myth because it is impossible is to dismiss the vampire altogether."

She shook her head. "I don't think so. I think for any group that had hidden for the entirety of its existence, there are bound to be myths based on truth as well as myths based on fear…"

He tilted his head, his heart pounding, and he could hear hers pounding too. "There's no scientific way to determine which are which though…"

"Well, we are only hypothesizing… any that can't be explained scientifically but could have been invented out of fear, we can…hypothetically…place into the myth column."

He adjusted himself in his seat. Maybe this was a dangerous topic to engage in. She'd obviously put a lot of thought into it—too much thought. Why was that? Was it really the books that had started her on this tangent? But she was watching him now, as his deep blue eyes flickered across the table in indecision. She lifted her coffee cup to her lips and he was reminded to do the same, though he did not take more than a tiny sip into his mouth. Her jaw twitched, her mouth always revealing what her eyes tried to hide. He gave in.

"Okay. Fine. What about going out in the sun?"

She flashed him another smile, and he felt his knees once again go weak at the sight of it. "…Well, there are people who are allergic to the sun—any UV contact can actually burn their skin within…gosh, I'd say a minute. There are creams which allow them a few minutes, but they won't hold off the problem for long."

He nodded, feeling a little relaxed. He had been in the sun with her hundreds of times. She couldn't be catching on, if this was her theory. "But," she continued, and his eyes snapped back to her face. "I'm skeptical. I think, to exist completely off the radar, you have to be on the radar, just a little."

He dipped his head to one side, conceding the observation, but let her explain all the same. "You can't live in…America, for example, or any post-industrialized nation, for that matter…without either living in a cave or having a traditional living arrangement. Now, I don't know," she sat up, and then lifted the book again, using it to emphasize her point, "but my understanding of Vampires is that they are both more and less civilized than we are—they appreciate things which far outreach human lifetimes…art, music, fine wine, culture—but are also ruled by a predatory, animal instinct which the modern human has learned to ignore, if not yet shed itself of completely. So then, they would play the system—take on identities they don't have, live outside the norms by conforming to them—just enough. This would require sun exposure."

"Then where did the myth come from?"

"Fear, and maybe a little human experience. Most killers attack at night—for a race which wishes to remain hidden, revealing their true nature in daylight seems ignorant, which is one thing vampires are never described as being… so the same rules apply. Cover your tracks in darkness—which would mean that those looking for evidence of vampires would realize all the deaths took place at night and, not assuming a creature so powerful would need to hide from weak humans, would take their thoughts of religion and hell and create the image of something demonic and terrible, which was so evil that a single ray of sunlight could burn it so terribly that it would prevent the creature, during daylight hours, from committing the sins it so desperately desired."

He watched her, intrigued by what she had said. "So you don't believe Vampires are demons then? They are not evil?"

She shook her head, the corners of her lips twisting up. "Oh no, I would never look at any animal—from lowly mosquito to simple human to big, bad vampire—as being evil. Every carnivore kills other living, breathing, beings to keep itself alive. It's nature. Vampires aren't evil just because they're above us on the food chain… Besides, I've seen enough evil in my lifetime, from the likes of humans who professed to be nothing but holy, to learn not to judge the whole by the individual, or the individual by the whole."

They sat in silence for a moment—the other myths were running through their heads, but it seemed unnecessary. Whether possible or a myth from fear, both felt that they had determined it was possible…and this scared Grissom—he worked to keep the emotion from his features. But he had a moment of weakness—he could not help it—and indulged himself in a question he knew he should not have asked.

"What would you do, if you met one?" His voice was too soft, but there was nothing that could be done for it now. His ears detected her heart rate increase, and his eyes flickered nervously from her eyes to her mouth, not wishing to miss whatever it was that she chose not to say. She appeared to think for a moment, resting her hands and elbows on the table in front of her, clasped.

"I don't know if I would recognize him…or her…for what he was. The most tell-tale signs, I suppose, are the ones we disregarded—lack of heart beat, cold skin, no sun exposure…fangs, I suppose." She giggled softly, though he could not entirely understand why. "But if I did… Well, it would depend on who it was. If it were a stranger, I'd be a little afraid…I _am_ food, after all… and a little curious. But if it were someone I knew—someone who had existed in my life for years with me never knowing—I think I would just want to be let in." Her eyes lifted from the table, and locked on his, which were wide and apprehensive. "I don't think I'd be afraid… if they haven't hurt me in the years they've known me, why would they now?"

Their gazes held each other, and Grissom's mouth was dry, but he did not speak. She smiled, her head dipping just slightly. "You haven't touched your coffee, Griss…" That smile was too knowing—the comment too observant. He lifted the cup and took a big drink, trying to be nonchalant, and she smiled wider, which upset him.

There was a bustling behind him and he turned to see the rest of the team shuffling into the room in search of coffee and assignments. He glanced back at her, but she now had her nose in the book, the corners of her lips twitching.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Not mine, not mine, not mine.

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Chapter Six:

He gave them all a minute to get coffee and get settled, relieved that he had his assignments for the night with him when he'd first entered the room—it felt like hours ago, now. He distributed them quickly, mentally having to adjust the pairings he'd initially had. He and Sara had been working a 419—he pulled Greg onto it with himself instead, and put Sara with Nick on an assault resulting from a B&E—the homeowner was in the hospital, but they were hoping for the best.

He would have preferred Nick with himself, if he couldn't have Sara, but he didn't want Sara and Greg to have more time together than absolutely necessary. Warrick and Catherine were headed to the scene of a hit and run turned car crash—a sixteen year old girl had been hit in an intersection, and the car that had apparently hit her had crashed into the corner of a building—thankfully empty at this time of night—a block away. It was a long night—Greg chattered while processing, and it gave him a headache. He thought now that maybe he should have taken Warrick or Catherine, and given them Sara instead—Nick had more patience for Greg than anyone except…Sara.

He cringed and pushed her—and their unavoidable conversation—from his mind so that he could focus. It took hours to process, and by the time he returned to the lab, Nick and Sara had been called to another scene and Catherine and Warrick were already interrogating a suspect in an interrogation room. He briefly considered observing, but decided that he didn't know enough about the case for it to be helpful anyway, and sent Greg off to log the evidence and distribute it to the various labs for analysis. He went to work on paperwork—it seemed like he never really got ahead on it—and had not even noticed when the girl whose smile he'd been forcing from his mind all night appeared in his doorway, leaning against the frame.

He jumped when he saw her—how had he not heard her approach?—but smiled and gestured her in. "Hey, what's up?"

She smiled sheepishly again. "I, um… I was thinking about our…hypothesis, tonight." She turned up a corner of her mouth and tilted her head, as if to imply she felt silly for the attention she'd given it. Her heart betrayed her—fluttery and soft, but too fast. "You asked me… what I would do, if I met one."

He nodded, trying to block the sound of her now pounding heart from his mind—with a moment of effort it was achieved, and then he could focus more readily on her words. She continued, oblivious to this momentous effort on his part to give her his full concentration.

"What would you do?"

He looked at her in surprise. "If… If _I_ met a… vampire?"

"And you recognized him for what he was." She clarified, nodding. He took a moment to think, eyes scattered about the room again—an unavoidable habit when he was deep in thought.

"I imagine, if I weren't afraid—very unlikely, I assure you—I would… be a scientist examining a new species. I would want to know… how much we were right about, you and I. How close our hypothesis had been to the truth."

They sat in silence for a very long minute, and then she stood, without a word, and moved over to the door, closing it. His eyebrows raised in surprise as she reseated herself and took his gaze into hers with more decisiveness than he had ever seen her exhibit, at least when it came to him. "So…" She dipped her head, gesturing that it was to him she spoke, although that was abundantly clear—they were alone in his office. "How much were we right on?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said if you ever met a vampire you weren't afraid of, you would want to know how close our hypothesis had been. I agree—I want to know that too. And, as I happen to be sitting across a desk from a vampire that I am not afraid of, I'm asking the question. Were we close?"

He lost control—he could no longer control the stimuli his body was taking in—both hearts were pounding—her hair rustled against the back of her chair—Greg tapped his fingers in the lab down the hall. Catherine laughed somewhere, with someone. A vacuum was being used across the building, down a floor. He could smell every person's shampoo and deodorant—the sweat on the back of their necks, and the dirt on their shoes.

He trembled, fighting to regain control, because it was unbelievably hard to focus on her face when his senses were being overloaded. Before he had centered himself enough to respond—he did not even know if he would have been truthful with her or not—she was standing, apparently taking his silence as a refusal to discuss it.

"That's okay, Griss. You don't…have to talk about it. I just… I told you that if it were someone I knew, someone I wasn't afraid of…that I would want them to let me in…share the part of their life that they felt they couldn't share with anyone. …The offer stands. I'll see you later."

And she was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

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Chapter Seven:

She drove home slowly, amazed at how calmly she had managed that—amazed that he hadn't even tried to deny her accusations… She parked her car outside her apartment building and realized just how tired she was as she climbed the stairs—it had been a long shift. She let herself in, locking her door behind her out of habit, and slipped off her shoes. Her purse and kit were dropped in the doorway and she hurried into her kitchen, sticking two pieces of toast into the toaster and pushing down the lever before returning to take her kit and purse to the slightly cluttered table she never used. Her coat was tossed to the table as well—she was normally not so messy—this was an effort to prevent compulsive cleaning.

She often felt the need to clean and re-clean, never leaving garbage in her apartment when she left, just in case she didn't come home and her work family ended up digging through her things. The problem, however, was that it truly had become a compulsion. She had started changing her sheets daily—scrubbing her bathroom daily—organizing and reorganizing her bookshelf and forensic journals and CD collection every few days.

She had begun to realize that she did not have time for anything other than work, eating, sleeping, and the constant cleaning, so she had given herself limits on how ordered her life could be.

The toast popped up then, and she went over to it quickly so that it would be hot when she spread her peanut butter—she wanted it melty. She poured herself a glass of juice, not wanting to get stuck awake by drinking more coffee, and took her plate and glass to her couch, setting them each on the coffee table and turning on the TV. Early morning television was never very good—she wasn't a talk show person…she wasn't really a people person, truth be told—so she flipped it to the discovery channel and lost herself in a documentary about black holes.

She turned the television off as soon as she'd finished her small meal and downed the last swallow of her juice before taking her dishes to the kitchen and placing them in her dishwasher. She had the compulsion to turn the dishwasher on, or scrub the dishes by hand, but she overrode it, closing the door to the machine and then turning her tired eyes on the doorway to her bedroom. She was exhausted.

She trudged into her room, quickly stripping off her work clothes and allowing herself to toss them into an empty clothes basket, but not into the washer. She moved, naked, through her bedroom and into the master bath to quickly shower off the crime scene and all the accompanying bad feelings that went along with it. She took her time, enjoying the hot water, and then dried off in a hurry, slipping into her usual tank-top-and-underwear sleeping arrangement.

She was running the towel through her hair when there was a knock on her door again. She sighed in frustration and grabbed a pair of PJ shorts from her dresser and slipped them on as she stumbled out into her living room, almost tipping herself completely over in the process, but finally making it to the door. She swung it open, breathless, and there he was again. She drew in a deep breath, arms rising to fold across her chest once more.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I borrow them, every once and a while...

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Chapter Eight:

He drew in a steadying breath—he had come here on a whim, and now felt at a loss for what to say. She was in pajamas again—her hair still wet from a shower, little drops of water trailing down her shoulders and into places he had only dreamed of knowing. He swallowed hard, tearing his eyes from her body—which he desperately wanted to commit to memory—and took her eyes. "Can… Can I come in, Sara?"

Her eyes narrowed speculatively. She held the door wide and stepped back, so that he had a wide entrance, but he did not even attempt to move himself forward. He knew it would be a wasted effort. His eyebrows raised, waiting for her to break down, but she was not so easily discouraged.

"Tell me I'm right. Tell me that that's why I have to say the words…"

He looked at the floor. "…Tell you what you already know?"

There was a deafening silence, and she finally sighed, her arms falling from their protective position across her body. "Will you please come in, Grissom?"

He inclined his head in thanks, and she shut the door behind him once he'd stepped inside the doorway. He did not initiate the conversation, letting himself instead take in the completeness of her appearance. The shorts were short—just inches of fabric from being underwear—and he had never seen her legs before…not like this. They were long, lean, shapely… more tan than he would have guessed, for Sara.

"I'd offer you something to eat or drink but… my guess is that you don't want anything from the kitchen."

He shook his head solemnly.

"Well, come sit down I guess."

She plopped herself down on the couch, beside the chair he had occupied when he was previously here, but he sat on the opposite side of the couch this time.

"So… were we close?"

He smiled, despite himself, nodding. "Close…"

Her arms crossed awkwardly across her chest again, and he sighed in frustration. "You can go get a shirt if you'd be more comfortable, Sara…"

She raised another eyebrow, a little grumpily, though she wasn't sure why. "Do they bother you?"

He smiled softly, wryly. "Your breasts? No, they're lovely. Your constant fidgeting because of what you're worried about me seeing, despite the fact that you were willing to open your door in it when you thought it was someone else… yes, I find that irritating."

She swallowed hard, her cheeks red again. "I don't care what… others… think of me."

A large grin crossed his face. "But you care what the vampire in your living room thinks?"

She nodded sincerely. "I do." Despite this, she had now let her arms fall free from her chest, and did not seem bothered anymore, even when his eyes flickered there, against his will.

There was some silence, and he broke it. "I took you off the Briar case, over a month ago, because she had been killed by… one of my kind."

She nodded. "I know."

He grinned again. "You miss nothing. …I… can see my reflection in the mirror."

She nodded. "I've seen you in the interrogation room—you always show up, and the whole wall is mirrors…"

"I can walk in the sun."

"I've walked with you in the sun."

"…Garlic makes me sneeze. But I don't know if that's a coincidence or not…"

She giggled, and sat her body up so that she was no longer leaning into the corner of the couch. It brought her much closer to him. "You're… immortal?"

He shook his head. "Not immortal… just old."

"How old?"

The corners of his mouth twisted. "I was born during the revolutionary war. Changed when I was forty-six years old…"

Her eyes got wide and she smiled brightly. "Do you remember your… human life? What was it like?"

He smiled. "Not so different from my vampire one."

"You're… more than 200 years old."

"I am."

There was a pause and she drew in another deep breath. "You eat…drink…people…blood."

He shook his head softly. "The older the vampire, the less often feeding is necessary… I've managed to do pretty well by sneaking samples we get from blood drives. They send the lab expired bags of blood, for experiments…sometimes they'll send one that has a day or so left to it, doesn't…taste so bad. I take my opportunities as they come…"

"The… transformation?"

He shook his head. "I can't remember it. I've never turned anyone myself, so I can't speak to the process…"

"What did you drink… before you could get blood from the lab?"

"Animal blood, usually… Rare steaks, when desperate. I've never killed anyone, Sara. I believe that's the question you're skirting…?"

She nodded, unabashed. "It was, yes. …The…not being able to enter, unless invited… I would have called that a myth. But it isn't?"

He shook his head. "No. I can't explain it either…"

There was another long silence, but Grissom knew that Sara was not done with her questions, and the idea of opening up to someone for a change…to Sara—a woman like her he hadn't met in almost two hundred and fifty years—was intoxicating. He would not choose to end it—she would have to get sick of him.

"Have you ever been married?"

A frown appeared on his lips, creasing his face up to his forehead. "I was married to a girl I didn't know when I was fifteen."

Her eyes widened. "Did you have children?"

He nodded softly.

"I'm… I'm really sorry, Grissom."

His eyes closed in pain. "My name is Gilbert. Gil, if you must."

She was taken aback. "You… you once told me call you Grissom."

"Because people don't feel comfortable using my given name in modern times… at least not the full extension of it… which is fine. But if you're talking to the man I really am, not the mask I wear each day, please use my name."

She scooted closer to him on the couch, and he felt his heart rate accelerate. He opened his eyes to find her even closer than he expected. "Tell me….about your children."

"Margaret…Miss Maggie, I called her… was our first born. My child-bride was eighteen when she gave birth, and looked to me with fearful eyes when the midwife told us it was a girl. I didn't care if we'd had a boy or girl or if it had come out half-and-half… I was so happy to be a Papa. Maggie was beautiful—she had her mother's golden hair, but my curls, and my eyes…her mother's dimples. I knew from the first day she was born that I would have to fight the men away from the likes of her. She was too lovely for her own good." He drew in a deep, shaking breath, and chanced a glance to Sara.

"She was walking before she was a year…riding horses before she was ten…always such a free spirit. Her Mama didn't like that—she wanted her to grow up to be a proper young lady, and she and I... we just wanted to live in the moment. …She did grow up beautifully—she possessed a grace and strength of character that I have rarely seen exhibited since, and I have had much time to look. I refused to let her marry young—my wife worried we'd make her an old maid—but I finally gave in when she told me she'd fallen in love. She was 22…a good age to be married."

He looked like he needed to convince himself that he had done his job as a father, and Sara nodded in agreement, watching the emotions play across his face. "She died giving birth to her first child—a little girl, who didn't make it either. We named her Grace." There was a long pause, but he forced himself to continue.

"My wife, Elizabeth, and I… we were never very compatible… we were kind to each other, and we built a life together, but there was little…fire there. I did not stray from my marriage, Sara… but I spent many years without ever touching her. I worry now, in retrospect. In those days, we didn't believe that women needed sex as men did… and I often wonder if I stole her childhood and then neglected her womanhood. It was not her fault that we were in a loveless marriage. We did have a son, however, when Maggie was seven. George—after Washington, of course; we were nothing if not patriotic. He died of tuberculosis when he was three.

"His birth…was rough on Elizabeth. She barely made it. She couldn't have any more children, after that… When I was turned, I had spent 31 years married to a woman I didn't love, or even desire… I had lost the daughter I had spent my life to protect, which only served to remind me of the loss of Georgie, years and years before…and so small. The very last thing I wanted was for life to stretch on indefinitely before me, leaving me trapped with my demons…"

He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. "The…thirst…is hard to control, at first. I could not return to my wife, for fear I would kill her. I do not know what they made of my disappearance, but I hope she was taken care of. I did not mean to leave her without a means to support herself…"

Sara's eyes were locked on his face, but he could not bring himself to meet them. He did not know what her reaction would be to his words, but she had prompted him to open up… and he had not spoken of Maggie…of his family… since he had been turned. It hurt—rubbed raw old wounds that, somehow, still hadn't healed—but also soothed. He wanted to talk about them…. About how Maggie was brave as a lion, and sweeter and brighter than the sun. He chanced another glance—there were tears in her eyes.

"I drank from animals… humans who were already dying, sometimes… it's hard to resist." He looked sheepish, almost shameful. "It's like a lobster next to dry cheese and stale crackers…and you're always so _hungry_ when you're that young. I moved through the decades, reinventing myself and moving to new places, trying to hold on to my sense of self and keep going… and then I discovered science. And I was home… I felt more human than I had… since Maggie's death… still not right, but I had something to hold on to, something to work towards…"

"Did you… take any lovers?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Not until I was certain my wife could not still be alive, and even then it was in passing. Women I desired, who desired me… vampires I would chance upon in my travels… no one who meant more than a warm body and a necessary release." His words were cold, and he worried how she would view him in his unfeeling honesty. He did not want her to think him heartless, but he would not lie to her now. His eyes flickered to her again. She looked thoughtful. "…What?"

She looked at him in surprise, and then half-smiled, eyes still clouded with thought. "You… you've lived on this earth for nearly two hundred and fifty years, but you've never been in love."

"That's not true."

She looked alarmed now, instead. "You said…"

"I have not loved any of the women I slept with. I have been in love."

"Oh." The lines on either side of her mouth tightened. Another long moment, and then she couldn't help herself. "Who was she? …A scientist, I bet. Lemme guess, you did research with her… she was one of the only people you've ever met whose intellect could challenge you, and beautiful to boot. Strong for a woman, especially in her time, with progressive ideas about the world."

His smile was almost bitter. "You know me too well. That sounds… exactly like her."

His eyes flickered to her mouth, down to the chest she no longer hid, and then back to her eyes. She had followed his eyes, and smiled now, feeling something hot and pressing—like courage but more mindless—swelling up in her chest. "How long has it been, since you've been with a woman… vampire or otherwise…?"

He shrugged softly. "A few years, I suppose… prior to that, however, it was nearing thirty…"

She considered him seriously for a long moment, and then rose to her knees, so that she was kneeling before him on the couch, the proximity sending goose bumps across her limbs.

"Do… Do you want me, Gilbert?"

He swallowed hard, and turned his face deliberately from the tantalizing offer she made with more than her voice. "Yes. I do."

"You can have me, Gil…" Her voice was desperate with longing as she spoke, pleading with him to believe that it could, somehow, be okay for him to take her, even if it was only for her warm body and the needed release. His hands trembled, but he refused to turn to face her.

"Sara, dear, please sit down."

She did not know where she found the courage, but she felt closer now than she ever had to getting a chance to be with the man of her dreams, even if only for one night—it pushed her forward, and she moved her right leg from where it rested, near the edge of the couch, parallel to the back of it, over his legs, and set herself down in his lap. Without conscious thought to do so, his hands came to rest of the outside of her thighs, steadying her against him. "Sara…"

"Don't think, Gil…" She covered each of his hands with her own and slid them up to her hips. "Just put your hands on me. Please…"

His hands trembled again. "Sara…"

"Gilbert." His given name on her lips shook his deeply—more deeply than he could have expected… more deeply than even her presence on top of him. He turned back to her without meaning to, and his breath caught in his throat—her face was closer to his than it had ever been, and her eyes burned into his.

He swallowed hard, but regained control of himself, using the hands on her hips to slide her off his lap and back onto the couch as he sprung to his feet instead. He blocked out all his senses, to the point that he could hardly hear or breath or see—because he knew if he allowed himself to become aware of all her bodily reactions, he would not be able to resist any longer.

She looked hurt, tucking her knees to her chest and watching as he paced the apartment in front of her. He was agitated, aroused, frustrated, upset… He turned to look at her in desperation.

"Why, exactly? Why is it that, when I'm just a man, you're shy and reserved and try to make sure I never see any of the desire in your eyes, but when I'm a vampire, you're begging me to bed you? How… How does that even happen, Sara? I mean, what, do you have a biting fetish? _I can bite you_, little girl… make you scream until your lungs give out. Or is it just the power? I wonder, is it yours or mine, that you're interested in? Should the big bad vampire force himself on you, the wee little human, or are you instead the temptress—so skilled in seduction that even a creature of the night cannot resist your siren call? _Fuck_, Sara! I've known you for ten, fucking, years, and you've never come even close to being that direct with me. …I don't want to be your… creepy vampire fetish. Fuck!"

And then he had moved—so fast Sara's eyes only processed the blur—to the door, slamming it hard on his way out.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

* * *

Chapter Nine:

Sara had not called in sick when she wasn't since she'd worked at Chucky Cheese… but, after dragging herself up, off the couch, where she had been crying for hours, she determined that she was in no state to work, much less see Mr. Gilbert Grissom, _vampire with a temper_. She ran her fingers over the numbers on her phone several times, working up her courage, and then dialed in a number she knew by heart and hit send. She worked to keep herself from hyperventilating as it rang, finally hearing a voice answer on the sixth ring.

Catherine must be busy with Lindsey—she never took that long to answer.

"Willows."

"Catherine… it's, uh… it's Sara. I tried to call Gi—Grissom, but he didn't answer his phone… he must still be sleeping," She lied easily, pushing ahead before Catherine could comment on how rare it was for Grissom not to answer.

"I'm, uh… not feeling very well tonight. I think I have the stomach flu… I wouldn't… call in sick for the flu, except it's pretty bad and… I don't want to contaminate evidence or… compromise the scene… you know, if I can't control it."

"Sara, you have to talk to Grissom. You can't call in sick to me."

"Right, I know, but… hang on!" She dropped her phone intentionally, letting it bounce off the coffee table several times before coming to rest on the floor, and then she counted slowly in her head to three hundred.

When she snatched up the phone gruffly, she spoke again in a softer voice. "Sorry Cath… look, don't worry about it. I'll keep calling Griss and if he doesn't answer I'll just see you tonight, okay? Sorry to bother you."

The older woman sighed, frustrated. "Go get some sleep, Sara. We can't have you vomiting at a crime scene… I'll try to get a hold of Grissom for you."

Sara groaned in obvious relief, still managing to make it sound frail. "Thank you so much, Cath… I'll see you tomorrow night."

When she was off the phone, she sighed heavily, moving over to her door and double checking that her locks were drawn. She knew that they didn't really make a difference, but it still managed to give her a sense of security she didn't understand. She wondered, idly, whether he could come in or not. If she invited him in once, did the invitation stand until rescinded?

She considered again… he had been to her house prior to this last time… she'd invited him in… yet he had had to ask the last time. So it must be on a case-by-case basis. That considerably dulled her worries and soon she was curled up in bed, exhausted but uncertain if she could sleep. His words swirled in her mind as she struggled for understanding.

He had been upset that she had propositioned him… that was obvious. And somehow, fetishes had entered his anger… S&M, biting… and something about how she'd never been so direct with him… She tried to understand—the hurt part of her insisted that he didn't want her, and was upset that she had ruined their friendship by pushing them towards sex… he obviously had known she wanted him, he had referenced how she'd hidden desire in her eyes in the past, but he must have preferred that.

It was easier to ignore, so they could just be friends, when she didn't sit on his lap.  
_  
Your breasts? No, they're lovely.  
_  
His words echoed in her mind, and she tossed some more, confused. Her heart wanted to despair, wanted to believe that she was undesirable by a man as great as Grissom…she'd known that since she met him… but her brain refused to let her ignore those statements to the contrary.  
_  
Do…Do you want me, Gilbert?_

Yes. I do.  
  
She punched her pillow angrily, squeezing her eyes shut tight at the words. It would only hurt more, in the long run, if she kept replaying those moments in false hope. She needed to shut them out—she leaped out of bed in frustration, staring at the clock. It was the time she normally would have left for work. No wonder she couldn't sleep… her body clock was all off.

It didn't matter, really, that she hadn't slept all afternoon and had effectively stayed up over 24 hours; when she crashed it would be hard, but right now she was agitated and wired. She stomped out to her living room, clad once again in a tank top and underwear, and curled into her chair—the couch was wet on her side, from her crying, but she wouldn't sit where he had only hours before…she couldn't.

She snatched up the remote with too much aggression and turned the TV on—it was going to be a very long night.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, grr!

* * *

Chapter Ten:

Grissom did not answer his phone when Catherine called, hours after he had left Sara's, but still hours before shift would start. She did not try after he missed the first call, and so he assumed it could wait until later. He needed to calm himself—get a grip on reality—before he had to go in to work and see Sara Sidle again. His hands trembled and angry tears built up in eyes that had not cried in over a hundred years.

How could he be expected to turn her away, when she did things like that? He had lusted over her mind for years, but that did not mean that her body was not equally intoxicating—Vampire or not, he was still a man, and most men would have taken advantage when the woman of their dreams offered herself to them.

He swallowed hard, scrubbing his face with his hands. It was just… now that he had told her, let her know what he _was_, he had lost the biggest reason he'd been keeping himself away from her. Yes, he was her boss, but he had a hundred more lifetimes in which to build another career—a woman like this came along not nearly as often, he knew—he had waited for her.

The age difference, he scoffed to himself, was an invented barrier to mention in passing and deter the hope in her eyes… he had been born hundreds of years before her, he was hardly concerned with the lie of fifteen. And though there was a part of him that was afraid to open up—afraid to give more of himself than he ever had—this fear was not strong enough to prevent it.

But now, all of a sudden, there was something else. Did she want him, or did she want to be with a vampire? Maybe she had it in her head that sex with a vampire was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Or maybe he'd been right about the things he'd screamed at her—that his identity made for an irresistible power structure, one way or the other…

The one thing he knew for certain, however, was that she would not have straddled him and asked him not to think if he'd come over for some other reason, his secret never revealed… and he… just couldn't be with her senselessly. It would tear him apart to finally have her, but know that for her it was only physical…

And what if it was about a… creepy fetish? Once he had his hands on her body, on the lovely breasts to which he had referred tonight, or the thighs she had drawn his hands across, would he be able to tell her that he didn't want to be a big, bad vampire in bed? Or that she was intoxicatingly seductive, no matter what his identity, and all the more so because of her shy hesitance?

…Once in the moment, he had a hard time believing he would deny her anything.

And, _if she wanted him to bite…?_ He drew in a shaky breath, his mouth watering at the thought, remembering vividly being shocked the first time he'd been told by a vampire acquaintance that he'd been with human women who begged him to drink from them…

Could he say no? It would be something he wanted as well—but it would hurt her. He never wanted to hurt her… he wanted to make her feel _good_, that being the crux of his conflict.

He finally lay back in his large, empty king-sized bed, but simply could not sleep. He relaxed, eventually, and allowed himself fantasize about having said yes, rather than no. He did not allow himself to imagine her ulterior motives—in his mind, it was _him_ that she wanted—with the small exception of the biting concept.

He needed placate his conscience, even in fantasy, and held an argument with dream-Sara, being resistant to such an act. But when dream-Sara writhed beneath him, toes curling up in anticipation of her imminent climax, and begged him to bite her when she went over… he allowed himself to imagine the hot, wet taste of her in his mouth, almost as pleasurable as the hot, wet feel of her around him as they satisfied each other, and felt hot, wet tears fall from his eyes as the thoughts and sensations filled him up but somehow emptied him, too.

This was more real than he had expected of his imagination.

It was a long time before he could still his sobs, but he did, calming and then laying in bed, staring at his ceiling, wishing with all his heart that he had not had the strength to deny her.

He rose blankly, when he could wait no longer, showered as quickly as one can do apathetically, and forced himself to get dressed and drive to work, dreading seeing Sara now, even more so because of mistake he had made in letting his mind run wild. Every inch of her had been explored in perfect detail, and so he knew that no movement she made would not remind him of his errant day dreams.

He entered the lab with trepidation—not early for once—and actually had to hurry to gather assignments and meet his team in the break room. They were there before him, which was unusual, but he buried his head in the papers, not wishing to make eye contact…not wishing to see _her_, not yet.

"Alright, let's get going guys, sorry I'm running late. Catherine, we have an assault and probable rape at the Bellagio… why don't you take Greg? There's a 419 on Freemont Street, Warrick and Sara, take it. Nick, you can take a—"

"Uh, Gil?" Catherine interrupted, forcing him to lift his eyes from the paper. _Sara was not in the room_. If he hadn't been so distracted, of course he should have known that well before he even entered the building…but he was not himself right now.

Catherine continued, despite the fact that Grissom had fixed the remaining empty chair with a gaze of confusion and hurt. "Sara called in sick. She told me she'd tried your cell, but then called me when you didn't answer. She thinks she has the stomach flu…"

That was ridiculous. He would have known if she was sick…days, maybe even a week beforehand. The human body smelled…off, when fighting off infections. Even the common cold left a distinct smell behind—not bad, but thick and warm. And Sara—he was always so in tune with her—he could smell when she hadn't slept well, had a nightmare, eaten Chinese food…

"Right. Sorry, my phone's been a little…off today." He looked blearily back down at his papers and made a snap decision. "Okay, Catherine, you take the assault by yourself. Warrick, you and Greg get the 419—once you're done processing the scenes, Greg can help both of you process evidence, depending on need—murder takes precedence over assault. Nick, you've got a breaking and entering—homeowner's got a bump on the back of his head, but apparently isn't hurt, so you shouldn't need any help." He smiled his confidence at the young man briefly, and then turned to leave the room.

"Wait. Gil?" Catherine called from behind, and he turned reluctantly. "What're you working on?"

He grimaced—"Paperwork. I'm really behind. And if I get a chance, I'll go see how Sara's doing. It's not like her call in sick, even when she _is_."

They all chuckled softly, knowing this to be true, and then rose, splitting off to take their separate cases. Grissom made a show of boarding himself up in his office, under piles of paperwork, until they had each dispersed. Then he was struggling to keep himself walking at a normal human pace as he locked up his office and raced back down to his car, half way to Sara's apartment before he had even had a moment to consider what he would say to her.

He just… he couldn't stand the idea that she was so upset that she couldn't work. It wasn't like her.

And it scared him—what if she quit, because of his outburst? He could never forgive himself if, in his ignorance and weakness, he pushed her out of his life. It was worth a thousand lifetimes alone to share just half of this one with her, even if he never touched her again… or even if he had to give in, and be her vampire lover, rather than just her lover… even if she never, ever loved him too, it was worth it.


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Sorry it's so short, but I'm posting three so it should make up for it!

* * *

Chapter Eleven:

Despite her conviction that sleep was impossible, her tears had overtaken her again with a ferocity they hadn't had earlier in the day and they exhausted her. By the time Grissom had been walking into the lab, she had been fitfully curling her arms around a throw pillow, already unaware of her surroundings, the remote slipping from her limp fingers and bouncing against the carpet.

Maybe, had she been sleeping less soundly, had she been less exhausted by her grief, she would have heard the slow turning of a key in a lock and hushed click of the latch on the door as it was gently, gently opened and then closed again.

She did shudder, in her sleep, as the man in her apartment let his eyes trace over the long limbs folded into the little cream-colored arm chair, taking in with excited appreciation the black tank top and light blue underwear.

Something about how they weren't matching—her disregard for order—made him stop and think.

He had observed Sara Sidle for months now—he was nothing if not thorough. He knew that she cleaned daily, obsessively, and that her need for order permeated all other aspects of her life as well. He had almost been caught by a neighbor, outside her patio door, a little over a week ago. Fearful of being discovered, he had backed off for a while… he didn't want people in the area placing him, remembering him.

But the time he had spent away from his sweet Sara had been difficult—and so, with more boldness than he had ever exhibited, he had returned and entered this time. He was nervous—he had planned to watch her closely for another two weeks, to be certain of every detail, before he approached her—and this premature arrival, coupled with an apparent change in her behavior, stopped him in his tracks.

He trembled, for a moment, and moved closer to her, allowing himself to stroke a single finger across her thigh. She shuddered again, in her sleep, but did not wake. He would wait, even though his anticipation for the night had been great—he would have to satisfy himself at home, with her pictures, and save the final act of taking her for another night… when he had had a chance to study the changes.

He swallowed hard, but restrained himself from touching her again and left the way he had come, locking the door as he left.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of CSI.

* * *

Chapter Twelve:

Grissom hesitated, before knocking on Sara's door. He tried to think how he could explain himself, but he drew a blank, and knocked, hoping it would come to him. He relaxed a little when she didn't answer—maybe she was asleep…she didn't sleep enough. He let his senses go—he had kept them tightly contained in order to think clearly, but when it was clear that their reunion was not imminent, he could listen…see if she was sleeping, or awake… ignoring him, or not even home.

It was then that he was assaulted with a scent that nearly threw him flying—whether back against the wall behind him, or into her door, he did not know. It was sickly, dirty, and lustful… a man had been here, outside Sara's doorway… probably not twenty minutes before himself. He battled with himself, uncertain. He forced himself to concentrate, taking stock of the situation. Sara was sleeping—deeply. He didn't know, of course, but he would have guessed she'd been sleeping longer than twenty minutes. And he did not see Sara associating with…

He shuddered, trying to ignore the fact that she had offered herself up to him for nothing tonight. _That was different._ She would not let someone who smelled so clearly of violence and lust that even her human senses would pick up on it, on a subconscious level, touch her… would she?

He had not realized until now how much her offer had meant to him, despite how it had hurt him. He didn't like the idea that it was an offer she might make to anyone… and he was scared for her. She obviously had not been hurt—nor was she sick, he added wryly—but _someone_ had been here… had been inside, if his senses were not deceiving him.

He hammered on the door more insistently this time, fear making him unconcerned what her reaction to him would be. He just had to see her… make sure that he was right… that she was okay. He hammered again after only a second, though he had heard her wake, and then again a couple seconds later, when it sounded like she was heading towards her bedroom instead of the door. He heard her sigh, and move towards him instead, and breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened a crack, her face and upper body peering around.

"Sara! Oh, good! Let me in!"

She interrupted him, sleep and hurt both evident in her eyes. "Griss, I need to put clothes on, can I do that?"

"No!" He called frantically, as she started to close her door so she could dress. "Sara…someone's been in your apartment. Did you know?"

"…What?" Her eyebrows rose, and now fear was evident in her voice. "Grissom, what are you—"

"As far as you know, has anyone been in your apartment in the last….twenty minutes, half hour…?"

She swallowed hard. "No."

"Then we have a problem. Invite me in."

"Griss—"

"Please?" His voice was frantic—his body rigid. He could not stand the idea of her closing the door and retreating. What if he came back, through the patio door? He wouldn't be able to help her; he couldn't even pass the damn threshold.

Her eyes held his for a moment, and then she stepped back, allowing the door to swing open but keeping herself concealed behind it. "Come in."

He rushed in urgently, his stomach rolling at the overwhelming stench of whoever had been here. He looked at her—she was clad only in a tank top and underwear, looking at the floor, arms crossed again. He immediately averted his eyes, swallowing hard, now knowing what her intruder had been able to see. "You… you can get dressed, Sara. I just… I was worried you'd leave me outside and then… if something happened… I wouldn't be able to get in…to help."

She nodded, looking up to see how he looked away, and seemed torn by how to judge this, and then padded off softly to her bedroom.

Grissom took a deep breath to calm himself and also to pick up what he could—it was lucky the scent was so fresh. The man had come in, through the door, dirty and deceitful, and had paused, in the entryway where Grissom stood. He had then moved forward, stopping before the cream chair in Sara's living room—the pillow lying on the floor made him certain that that was where Sara had been sleeping, and he was suddenly sad—the smell of tears, Sara's tears, were also in the air, and so he knew she had cried herself to sleep there.

Sara returned quickly, a loose pair of gray sweat pants dragging beneath her feet as she walked, arms swinging at her sides rather than crossed at her chest. She met his eyes, and did not have to ask. "I can smell him—a disgusting, lustful smell… like dirt and shame and sex all rolled in one." He spat the words, upset, and then mentally shook himself, reminding him to remain calm. "You were asleep on the chair?"

"…How did you…?" She looked to the chair, as if looking for a clear imprint of her body that would give away such information, but obviously did not find it.

"I can smell him… where he walked… where he stopped. He came in, Sara, paused right where I am now, walked to the chair, paused again, and then came back to the door and walked out." He thought for a moment, and then, "How were you sitting, in the chair?"

She looked startled. "I… I had my legs up to my chest and I was… sideways. My knees against the arm, a pillow between them and my face…" Even in tough situations, Sara Sidle had a knack for details. He appreciated that silently, picturing the scene in his mind.

"Sara… uh, this is going to sound… very strange." She raised an eyebrow. "I need to smell your leg."

Both eyebrows reached for her hairline but, after a moment, she tilted her head, indicating that that was fine, and he moved closer to her, bending onto his knees. He would have reveled in being here, like this, with her, in any other situation… but he was so scared for her, he hardly registered his proximity and smelled her left thigh quickly, before feeling his stomach churn again.

"He… he touched you." She flinched at his words, and now there was a strong, deep sense of fear in her eyes. Grissom continued, letting his fingers gently trace where the other man's contact had gone unnoticed—from upper thigh to knee in a clean stroke. She trembled.

"How… how did he get in, Gil? I locked my door!"

His heart pounded as she used his name—seemingly without realizing it—but he answered as if he were unaffected. "There's no sign of forced entry… I'd be willing to bet he had a key."

There was a tangible fear in the air as they stood in silence, but Grissom broke it. "You're coming to stay with me. Pack your things, we'll move you over tonight."  
"Gil… I…" There was a different, softer fear in her eyes now, but he didn't have the time to analyze it yet. He spoke more gently, but the command was still clear in his tone.

"Sara. He has a key. He touched you. I can tell by the smell of him exactly what he wanted—wants—to do to you. Now, there are no tangible signs that anyone has been here… you can't get police protection or even an investigation with that. Let's get you somewhere safe, and then we can argue about it." When she didn't answer right away, her eyes locked on the ground, he tried again.

"Sara… I trusted you with my secrets, my past, my… insecurities… trust me with your safety, and your comfort, and your… peace of mind… _please?"_

Her eyes met his, and after a long moment, she nodded.

After that it was all business—she moved into the bedroom, Grissom hovering protectively in the doorway but looking decidedly away when she pulled items from her underwear drawer. Once packed, she threw a lightweight sweatshirt over her tank top, zipping it up, though it was much too warm for it—she felt exposed, and wanted cover.

He kept a hand on the small of her back from the minute they were out to door up until he'd safely closed her in the front seat on his car and started off towards his townhouse. He breathed a heavy sigh of relief, his only thoughts on how, now, he felt Sara could be safe… not yet about how long they would stay together, or how, considering the events of the previous day, they would get along.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: Fair warning, these are the last chapters I had fully written, so the next will be postponed longer than just for proof-reading.

Please review though! It might motivate me to write faster, and it makes me so very happy! :)

* * *

Chapter Thirteen:

She hesitated at the threshold to his townhouse, after he had unlocked it and let the door swing open to allow her entrance. "Grissom, you don't really have to do this. Less than a day ago you couldn't even look at me… I know the last thing you want or need right now is to have me constantly around."

His hand moved to her lower back again, and he gently guided her inside. "Believe me, Sara. I want you here." He stepped in after her and, because she had not moved further inside once he'd stopped guiding her, he was very close behind her as he closed the door and removed his shoes. She could feel his hot breath on her neck and goose bumps broke out, but she ignored them, not wanting to break the closeness in case it was intentional.

Apparently it wasn't. He edged around her, and then tipped his head, to encourage her to come with him.

She slipped out of her shoes and brought her bag with her. She had been to Grissom's home before—it was very functional. It was comfortable, too, of course… Grissom was a man who appreciated the trappings of civilization, but it didn't feel put together. She had only ever been on the main floor, however. He led her up the stairs.

She followed behind him quietly, still uncertain whether she was imposing, but he did not seem uncomfortable with her there. In fact, he was all smiles… and at her apartment, his fear had been fierce and overwhelming. She briefly considered this, wondering what his reaction would have been if it had been one of the other members of their team. Would he have been as scared? As protective? She didn't know, and so she didn't know how to treat him.

He gestured to the first door on the left as they passed it. "The study. You can help yourself to the bookcases…" And then the first door on the right. "Bathroom."

Finally, they stood at a crossroads—two doors on either side of the hallway, and at the very end. He cleared his throat, awkwardly. "The, uh… the one on the left is the master. And, uh, the one on the right is yours…" His eyes sought hers, and were deep and sincere. "For as long as you need it. And at least until we catch this guy…"

He turned, a bit awkwardly, and walked away, but she was frozen in place. 'At least'? Did he expect her to need a room after her stalker was caught or… stopped stalking? It was confusing, but also made her feel warm. Like he wanted her there.

She opened the door, taking in the simple décor—crimson sheets and a cream and brown pin-striped comforter covered the neatly made bed. It was a medium-sized room, housing two small nightstands, a dresser with a mirror over it, and of course, the bed. It was made of a dark wood with four intricately carved posters. It was too large for the room, and yet it anchored the space…made it feel strong and permanent.

She felt herself drawn to it, wanting to touch the wood. It looked extremely old, and was satiny smooth to the touch. She ran her fingers over the comforter—it was silk. She set her bag down on top of the dresser, uncertain whether she ought to unpack.

She stood in the room, stuck in limbo, and then finally made a decision. She pulled the sweatshirt off and dug a ponytail from her bag, brushing her hair up quickly, using just her fingers, into a ponytail. It was a hurried action, and she felt a few strands slipping even as she left the room.

She stopped outside their rooms, listening, but he did not seem to have come back upstairs, so she padded slowly toward the stairs. She glanced into the study as she passed, seeing two of the walls completely obscured by bookshelves, and a cluttered, messy workspace of a desk in the open corner. A burgundy leather loveseat rested next to the wall against the hallway, against the only stretch of wall available in the room. She continued down and finally found him in the kitchen, cooking.

She raised an eyebrow, despite her previous silence and awkwardness. "Keeping up appearances?"

He smiled when he looked up at her, but she did not miss the amount of effort it took him to keep his eyes on her face. This made her smile too.

"I was…uh, cooking for you, actually. You haven't eaten since the end of last shift and—"

"Wait." She looked at him curiously. "How do you know when I last ate?"

He chuckled softly. "Well, there are lots of ways… I can hear your stomach, even when you can't, for one thing… and…" He looked down, when referencing his appearance at her apartment earlier that day. "I could smell that you'd made peanut butter toast for breakfast, when I was there…earlier… when I was there tonight, I could still smell the toast, but not any other cooking or take out… I figured you hadn't gone out to eat, considering you were uh, _too sick_ to come to work tonight…"

Despite the topic, she smiled softly and slid herself onto one of his bar stools. "I _am_ hungry…"

He grinned, losing his awkwardness upon seeing her ease. "Great! I'm making a veggie pizza. Now, are you a vegetarian on principle alone, or do you actually like vegetarian foods…?"

She chuckled. "I like most of it. You debating between making me a real pizza or just having cheese?"

He laughed. "I was, actually. How did you know?"

She tilted her head. "Just had a feeling. A lot of people aren't sure…" He just smiled, and then they sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, while he added toppings to the pizza. "You… at my apartment… you said you could smell what he…wanted to do… you could smell that he had touched me."

He tilted his head, trying to follow her train of thought, but nodded all the same, opening the oven and placing her personal pizza inside.

"…How… how can you do that? I mean, when… when he wasn't even there…"

He came around the little island to sit on the bar stool next to her, facing her instead of the counter. The result was that her knees would have been tucked between his if they'd been just a little bit closer. The proximity was distracting, as always, but she pushed past it. She needed to understand.

"I… I wouldn't have been able to smell exactly where he'd touched you but it was so recent, and you were asleep so it hadn't really… come into contact with anything else. The air in the apartment wasn't stirred up. Little things make a big difference… I still would have been able to smell him though, on you and in the apartment… just without the details. For a few hours, probably—it was so strong."

"What… what did it smell like? What… what told you his… intentions?"

She swallowed hard, her hands clasped in her lap to keep them from trembling. Someone she didn't know had been in her house—touched her thigh; she could have been seconds from a horrifying ordeal, and she would never have known… What did they know about this guy? Was she just a random? Maybe he'd seen her through her curtains… she hoped that he hadn't been watching her for a long time, but the fact that he had come and gone made her feel like he was taking his time… If it hadn't been going on for a while already, it would be going on for a while in the future…

She tried to sort these thoughts, never taking her eyes from Grissom's face. A myriad of emotions skittered on the edges of his expression, but he was trying to keep them under control—she could see that. Finally, he gave a hesitant answer…"

"Have… have you ever had a one-night stand, Sara?"

Her eyebrows raised and she had to stop herself from getting defensive. He was speaking to her the way he often did at the lab—answering a question with a question, gathering information before giving the full explanation. She bit her bottom lip. "One."

He nodded. "I guess… I don't know anything about your experience but… the closest human comparison to the smell coming from the freak in your apartment was that of sex… but not just sex. Sex and shame. The way the sheets smell after a much-regretted one-night stand, rather than after a passionate night of lovemaking. …Does this make any sense?"

She nodded. It did make sense. "And… he smelled like that? Like sex and shame?"

"And lies."

Their eyes met. She had described a mental hospital she'd once been attacked in as smelling like lies… she knew exactly what he meant when he gave that description.

"Why me?" The question slipped from her lips inadvertently—she was a CSI, she shouldn't be acting like a confused and helpless victim. She could ascertain 'why' as easily as he could… and without the quiver in her voice, too. Really.

He did not seem to find her reaction unbecoming for a CSI however, and answered her simply. "As I'm sure you've considered… it's a miracle he didn't do more. That kind of self-restraint speaks to someone who's in it for the long-haul. I looked at your windows, while you were packing… I think he watched through them, and your patio doors too… I wanna say he's been at it a while."

She shuddered again, and then she felt herself pulled gently against his chest, his arms wrapping around her shoulders comfortingly. "It's okay, Sara. You're safe here."

She breathed in deeply, savoring the scent of him and the feel of his chest and the rhythm of a heart that was very obviously beating—too fast, actually. Why was his heart racing? She pulled back just enough to look at him, trying to decipher his expression. Was he worried about the stalker and unwilling to tell her, in case it frightened her?

But he didn't look afraid… he looked… aroused. Desire was in his eyes, warring with hurt and indecision. And then she understood—he wanted her, but there was something else holding him back. And what was worse, she didn't feel like she could give him a nudge in the right direction… something she couldn't understand had happened between them and it prevented her from doing any convincing. That was where the hurt came from—from her pursuance.

Her eyes narrowed and she drew in a deep breath as he did not break their gaze, wondering who was winning his internal struggle. She tried to decipher the eyes—they still looked undecided, but not so chaotically now. There was her answer—logic would win before irrational pain or imminent passion had a chance.

"…Tell me what you're thinking, Sara. I can't seem to read your face right now…"

It was a struggle to hold his gaze, but she did so. "Honestly?"

The corners of his mouth twitched. "I wouldn't ask you if I expected a lie…"

"I can see what you want to do, and that you know that I want it too. I can also see that you're torn—undecided… And that if I tried to convince you… you would shut down. But I don't understand why…"

He drew in a deep breath. "I… question your motives, as it were."

They had not yet pulled apart from each other, and up until his last statement, the moment was thick and pulsing with desire. Now hurt filled her eyes, though she had not had more than a split second to process his words, and then she had broken the connection, pushing his arms from her and turning away. It confused him, and he watched her, speechless, trying to understand.

She shook her head when he opened his mouth, though he had not come up with anything to say. "I'm… I'm gonna go to bed now, if that's okay. Thanks for letting me stay with you, Griss. I'll call some friends tomorrow and see if I can get out of your hair. Goodnight."

She slid easily from the bar stool and forced herself to walk at a normal pace to the stairs. She hesitated just a fraction of a second at the bottom of the stairs, which she was sure he'd noticed, she mentally berated herself, and then headed up to the guest bedroom, hearing his phone ring as she slowly swung the door closed.


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I don't own...

A/N: Sorry it took so long to update, I've been struggling with how I wanted the chapter to go. Review and tell me what you think! ...How long until they have some hot vampire lovin?

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Chapter Fourteen:

"Grissom," he answered reluctantly, watching as Sara disappeared up the stairs. It was Catherine.

"_Gil—where are you? No one's seen you all night and we're swamped here. Greg's about to pull his hair out, he's so busy running between Warrick and me."  
_  
He groaned inwardly, but made his excuse. "I'm checking up on a lead…"

_"What lead?"_ She was skeptical.

"I'll let you know if it turns into anything substantial. Listen, is Nicky done processing his scene?"

_"Well, yes but—"_

"Great. Have him jump in too, when he's waiting on results. Borrow some cadets for the simple stuff."

_"Gil—"_

"I'm sorry Catherine. You know I would be there, helping, if this weren't important. It might be a long shot but…"

_"Tell me what this lead is."  
_  
His eyes flickered to the top of his stairs. "Not unless it turns out. Thanks, Cath. Bye."

He closed his phone and sighed. Should he go after her? She had… looked so hurt, so surprised by his answer… but surely she had already known about his hesitation? He had screamed his hesitation at her not yet a day ago. …Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe he needed to make amends. He… He didn't want her to stay with someone else. He wouldn't feel _safe_ not knowing where she was…

But then the oven buzzer went off, and he realized Sara had never eaten her pizza. He pulled it out and cut it quickly, slipping it onto a plate and pouring a glass of juice before bringing the dishes up the stairs.

He tapped gently on her door, which was closed, and was greeted by a soft, "Come in."

He moved into the room, having expected more resistance, but grateful that he had not. "I have your pizza, Sara…" She rolled over, having had her back to the door, and appraised him with heavy lidded eyes—she didn't look tired, they seemed heavy with confusion, hurt… he swallowed hard.

"Thank you, Grissom."

He set the plate and glass on the nightstand, sitting on the edge of the bed with her in the middle—it doesn't seem too intrusive. "…I asked you to call me—"

"I know." She cut him off, and then bit her bottom lip. "You told me that if I was speaking to the man you are, rather than the mask behind which you hide, then I should use your real name. …But you're not being honest with me… or, at least, not calmly enough for me to understand. So… all I see, right now, is the mask, Grissom."

His head moved back—an unconscious expression of surprise… a means to separate himself from her without moving. She didn't miss it, and her eyes closed sadly when he doesn't respond. "…Gil?"

If he was surprised at her snap about his name, he was more surprised that she had now reverted to his preferred one. …Which meant she would expect honesty, no mask. "Yes?"

"Is it… The reason you won't… be with me… is it because of the woman you told me about? …The one you were in love with."

He narrowed his eyes, contemplating. "…I guess, in a way. …Sara, the woman—"

She cut him off. "I don't… I don't want to hear about her. …It'll hurt too much."

And for some reason, this seemed to shake him awake… why would it hurt her, if it was only physical? If all she wanted was a vampire, not the man behind the fangs? What did it matter who he'd loved? His eyes scanned over her face, and he forced himself to ask the question—forced himself to be vulnerable, at least for a moment… because he had to know. He needed to understand.

"Sara… what… what you did, at your apartment, earlier today… well, yesterday, now, I guess… when you… propositioned me." She nodded, slowly, looking away as if embarrassed, but he pressed on. "Was that… did you only… want me… because of… what I told you? Because of… what I am?"

Her eyes lift to meet his, and her head shakes slowly. "Your… confession… made me… feel like I had a chance. Like I was less likely to be turned down…"

Impatient now, a disbelieving hope rising in his chest, Gil urged her, "But…?"

She looked away again. "I would have wanted it either way… man, mystery, monster… anything in between."

Though it was not the declaration of love he wanted, Gil Grissom was happy to accept an admission of desire—longing that was not based solely on some twisted fantasy, but on him as a man… even if she had used the word 'monster' a little too freely for his tastes. And with the elation building in him like a tidal wave, it was only natural that he should move to her quickly—meaning to kiss her senseless and take her up on any offer she now saw fit to give him… meaning to love her, and take her for his own, and taste every inch of her with his lips, even if he couldn't with his teeth.

The problem was the lack of control he had when it came to this woman—the lack of strength he found in her presence. Hearing what he wanted—even if it was not everything he wanted—had thrown him into chaos—sounds were buzzing in his ears, his eyes were overloaded with her beauty, the silk of the bedspread beneath his fingers was scintillating in the extreme and he could only imagine what the feel of her skin would do to his senses—what the taste and smell of her skin, her most delicate areas, would do to his already overwhelmed mind…

Having so little control means 'moving to her quickly' happens _too quickly_ for the little human girl, unaware of what has taken place in his brain and therefore not expecting his approach. Finding anyone, who had previously been a good four feet away from you, suddenly an inch from your face before you could even blink… before you could process the proximity… it would scare anyone. Anyone human.

But her reaction—wide eyes, backing away, a surprised gasp falling from frightened lips—and the tell-tale heart racing in her chest—it rang too clearly with her flippant use of the word monster… and then he was struck with another neurosis. Instead of fearing that she desired the monster, perhaps he should have worried that she didn't truly understand the monster… that seeing him as he truly was would scare her away… silly girl with romantic visions of tame, scientifically-explainable, supernatural creatures of darkness.

And so he pulled back from her slowly, apologizing profusely, and he backed out of the room, fear gripping him all over again. He closed himself in his own bedroom, and fought back frustrated, angry, confused tears—his emotions so much closer to the surface than normal.

Whatever it was causing the desire in her eyes… it certainly wasn't _him_. Not _really _him, anyway… her fear was more than evidence enough.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update, I had a lot of trouble getting the vampire lovin' right...

Please review and let me know what you think! :)

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Chapter Fifteen:

It seemed like hours that Sara sat, stunned, in the same position he'd left her in—sitting on the bed, knees drawn up to her chest, a look of udder surprise on her face. …When she finally unfroze herself, turning he held to look at the door in disbelief, she was seized with an anger so deep and uncontrolled that it lifted her straight out of bed without her conscious intention to rise.

He had to stop playing with her! He couldn't just tell her he wanted her and then push her away, rush into her home, desperate to save her, whisk her to his home, all but tell her he wanted her again, but 'question her motives,' then almost kiss her, and back away again before she could even process his presence. Good lord, the man had been less confusing when she thought he was just a man, and he certainly had been confusing then.

And with all that frustration—all that unyielding anger built up inside her—she soon found herself storming out of his guest bedroom and storming into his bedroom, across the hall, without even truly knowing she was doing it. Her fury propelled her forward and she could only move with it, hoping against hope that it would lead to an end of the confusion and pain the last day and a half had been. His door slammed hard into the wall as she forced it open, and he quite literally jumped from where he was laying on his bed as it happened.

"Sara?"

Now that she was here, she wasn't exactly sure what she intended to do… but the words came without thought, which was a relief. "Gil, you said you wanted me. Tell me, honestly and truly, no bullshit or questioning motives or whatever other excuses you've invented for yourself—do you desire me? Do you… want to sleep with me?"

She watched his eyes as a myriad of emotions flickered through them. Surprise, confusion, doubt, desire, shame… and then he looked down. His body positioning changed—he slumped rather than stood, and he couldn't meet her eyes. His voice came soft and low, and almost sad. "…Yes."

She wanted to keep being angry—to yell and scream and pound her fists on his chest—to demand to know why he was doing this to her, if he did indeed want her. …The way he held his body, however… the way he spoke and his failure to keep her gaze… it softened her temper, and she found herself moving to him slowly, wanting to understand the confusing myriad of emotions he had displayed—wanting to comprehend his behavior, because it just didn't make sense…

And when she reached him, and their eyes met tentatively, she was completely overwhelmed by the emotion she saw behind them—blatant confusion, and a deep and painful longing. Any memory of anger or frustration was long gone, and all she could do was lower her face to his, and brush her lips against his softly, offering once again what she had previously been denied.

He drew in a slow, deep breath at her proximity, trembling at the contact of her lips to his. He felt the control slipping away again—he could see every microscopic fleck of gold in her deep brown eyes, each individual eyelash, the precise shape and texture of those lips… he could hear her heart racing—awaking two kinds of hunger deep within him—and her breathing picking up… the rustle of the sheets beneath him and the gentle wailing of the wind outside the window. He could almost taste her proximity—the nearness of her… sweet and salty, and warm… unbelievably warm and soft. His fingers itched to touch her—to take in the silkiness of her hair, the smooth rush of sliding over her skin, the sensual movements of muscles flexing beneath her skin.

Even though he was not in perfect control of his senses, as usual, they all seemed to be centered on the woman before him—even without the time to adjust to what should have been natural to him, if he did not suppress it constantly. And reveling in that complete sense of release—of letting go… of experiencing fully… he kissed her back, passionately and deeply, finally letting his hands move to her face and indulge in the glorious feel of her.

She exhaled at his touch, low and deep, and before he had really thought about his actions, his hands had slid back to her neck, sensually down her shoulders, and attached themselves to her waist, dragging her down to him and into the satiny softness that was his bed. Her hands found his shoulders, and slipped back around his neck, into his curls—curls she had wanted to link her fingers into for years. She moaned, simply at being able to touch them—she had spent more than enough time, in her fantasies, erotizing perfectly non-sexual aspects of this man.

At her moan, his grasping fingers became more insistent, and his tongue slipped into her mouth hungrily, meeting hers with unrestrained passion. Her fingers quickly found the buttons of his shirt, working to undo them and pull it off his shoulders, and quickly removing her own just as eagerly—she was worried he would change his mind, and wanted to be certain there was enough to tempt him… to keep him wanting her, rather than thinking of reasons not to. She wouldn't be able to handle it if he told her no.

His eager hands found the soft mounds of flesh, and he trembled at the feel of them, his mouth watering as her heart raced to his touch. He had to remind himself to stay in control—he'd been with human women before, but none had made him feel so unrestrained… made his impulses seem unmanageable. He wasn't going to bite her… not when he was finally getting to be with her… not when it seemed like she trusted him, and wasn't afraid…

And as he ran his hands over her, letting his lips tease her nipples as his fingers inched towards her waistband, she moaned again, making his need insistent. Her sweat pants were quickly removed, his mouth finding the waistband of her panties, his tongue sliding across the delicate skin there. Her fingers moved to his head, entwining into his curls again, pushing him where she wanted him—and he wanted to be there, but he didn't think he could their first time…

His sex drive had changed, since he'd been a man… it was very oral-centric, and the lust for blood was often just that—lustful. To put his mouth on her body—in her most sensitive area—and hear her reactions… hear the pounding of her blood through the large arteries in her inner thighs while he was there… there was no way he wouldn't bite. No way he could help it…

So he reluctantly pulled from her grip, slid her panties down the long, luscious legs, and returned his mouth to hers, letting his hands move to do what she had wanted his mouth to. At the contact of mouth to mouth and the press of his fingers against her bundle of nerves, she dug her fingernails into his back, all but screaming out in passion, and then her hands were between them, almost ripping his clothing in an effort to unbutton and unzip and free him to take her.

He gasped out loud when both layers of clothing were slid down his thighs, first by her hands and then by her feet, when they were down too far to reach. The press of her body against his length as she wrapped her legs up to push his clothing down made him grip the sheets to keep from pushing himself roughly inside her at that moment; he didn't want her to have even a single negative memory of this experience. He wanted to make her scream out in pleasure like she'd never known, again and again…

She pushed him gently onto his back, and he allowed it, watching her breathlessly as she crawled over top of him, her legs straddling him, and held him tightly in her small hands. She stroked him gently a few times and sat up on her knees, guiding him slowly to her entrance.

He drew in a shuddering breath, preparing himself for the feel of her and the momentary loss of control it would again spur in him—he clenched his teeth, just to be sure, and his breath came out in a low hiss as she slid herself down the length of him, his fingers wrapped up in the sheets beneath him again, his whole body shuddering and straining for control.

"Wait, Sara," he forced out, sweat beading down his forehead at the effort exerted. She looked confused, but did not continue moving against him, looking down into his eyes, crinkled in the corners with strain. "Just… just give me a minute…" He closed his eyes, and clenched his teeth, and allowed himself to adjust to the feel of her—hot and wet and tight and so damn good. And when he nodded, a moment later, and she began to rock against him, he did not feel out of control—he just felt amazing, blissful, indescribable pleasure.

They stayed together, wrapped in ecstasy, until her nails dug into his chest and her muscles clenched around him. She screamed out his name, and rocked even harder against him, riding out her orgasm in a rush of sweat and noise and emotion. And when she had come down, breathless and flushed, the sound of her blood pounding hard in his ears, he flipped her over to her back again, pounding into her.

Within minutes she was tightening around him again, nails gripping his shoulder blades, and urging him to finish with her this time. He nodded, unable to form words anymore, and moved within her until she went over again, allowing himself to be swept up in her bliss and let go himself—as the waves of heat and pleasure coursed through him, he couldn't help but put his open mouth to the pulse point of her neck—just to feel the blood rushing beneath her skin in his mouth. It took all his effort not to bite, but he didn't, and when they were both finished, he rolled off of her in exhaustion, completely drained.

Breathing rapidly, he dragged her back to his chest, wrapping his arms around her, still half in disbelief that he had actually made love to this goddess of a woman. She sighed contentedly, already drifting into sleep, despite the heart still racing in her breast. He still wasn't certain what her motives were… how she truly felt… but she had made love to him like a man, not like a vampire… and he couldn't bring himself to care about anything else at the moment.

He was completely, blissfully, exhaustedly happy.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! I know this update doesn't progress the storyline much, but it's smutty, so that should make up for it! :)

Just a note, this was proof-read in a hurry, so there are probably mistakes. I apologize in advance.

Please review, it will make my night! 3

* * *

Chapter Sixteen:

She awoke slowly, keeping her eyes closed, not wanting to move. She was really only half-awake and half-aware—all she knew was how comfortable and warm she felt. How _good_ she felt. Slowly, with the lazy, drifting sort of cognition, she began to realize a few things about her surroundings.

There was light shining—not too brightly, but still there—against the back of her eyelids. It was the washed-out, liquidy sort of light that only comes very early in the morning. How strange. She never woke up in the morning… she was usually driving home when this time of sunlight filled the sky.

The next thing she became aware of was the direction of the light. Now, with her eyes closed, she was a little disoriented… but assuming she was at the head of the bed, and lying on her left side—her preferred sleeping side—which she was pretty sure she was… the light should be at her back. Her window was to the right of her bed. …But then, maybe she was on her right side. She was so deeply sunk in the comfort of her bed that that was all she could really process with her limited consciousness.

But then, that would be another thing. Her bed was not the kind of bed you could ever describe yourself as _sinking_ into… it wasn't uncomfortable, but it was more about function that… well, certainly more than the bed she was in. This bed felt like it had been designed to facilitate every comfort a body could desire—plush and warm and soft, scintillating, really, it was so smooth. There was still a firmness to prevent backaches, but even the blankets draped over her bare shoulders screamed of their silky smoothness.

Her bare shoulders? Not even the strap of a tank top…? No, she was definitely naked. Completely naked. This started her ascent into the world of the living—she always slept in a tank top and underwear. Always. If she was naked, then there was a very good chance she _was_ in a bed she didn't recognize, in a room with the light coming from the wrong direction. At which point her mind registered—rather belatedly—the feel of a warm body, pressed insistently against her back.

She kept her eyes closed as the last traces of sleep worked their way from her mind. What did she last remember? Who would she have slept with…? She remembered a vivid sex dream—but waking to images of her and Grissom wrapped up in one another way hardly rare. And right now, those images were only serving to distract from trying to remember who in the hell she'd gone home with.

Her eyes fluttered open, hoping to seek out some visual clue to jog her apparently sluggish memory. As the room came into focus, however, she realized that she was in the room she had dreamed about… she remembered that she had come to stay with Gris—Gil. She remembered that he was a vampire, and that they had made love the night before, despite his efforts to avoid such an interaction.

She remembered how his moans had come out strained through clenched teeth, at first… how his hands had tightened on her hips when she'd slid down the length of him… the absolute hunger in his eyes when they fell on her… the way his kisses had felt like he sought to devour her, and how blissful it had been to be devoured. She remembered how his eyes had flashed when she went over… how he had followed quickly after, his mouth finding her neck, his tongue running over the skin there… how sweetly he had pulled her to him, even in his exhaustion, to maintain contact as they'd drifted off to sleep…

She vividly remembered how hard it had been, for him to let go and be with her… how often he had hesitated, wavered, second-guessed and doubted… how his decision to sleep with her had truly seemed more a surrender to desires beyond his control than a straightforward choice to be with a woman. When he slowly reached consciousness, would he find her curled up beside him, and regret his actions? His weakness?

She blinked a few more times, and slid to the side so that his body was no longer in contact with her and the arm he'd draped over her hips fell to the sheets. A quick glance proved that he was still out. She slowly sat up, taking a moment to gather her bearings, and then pulled the comforter down, off both of their bodies, taking in the sight of his body that she had only gotten to see in bits and pieces the night before, as she had been rather distracted.

And when her eyes had drunk their fill, she drew a deep breath and placed a hand on his shoulder, rolling him gently onto his back. She stifled a giggle at how little he'd reacted to her movements—how completely exhausted he must be from the night before—and at the image of him laying there, completely asleep, every inch of his body relaxed and limp… well, not _every_ inch.

In fact, there were several inches which were neither relaxed nor limp—She smiled to herself. Apparently vampires had REM sleep too… apparently vampires had morning wood. She had to stifle another giggle which rose almost frantically to her lips. She had wanted to determine the manner in which he would awake and realize just what the night before had entailed… she was attempting to prevent him from falling back to the doubting and second-guessing.

Waking up to see himself, spread-eagled, naked, with a raging hard-on, and her gazing on at him and giggling… well, it probably wasn't going to boost his confidence in the rightness of giving in to his baser instincts where she was concerned. She wanted him to wake remembering exactly how _good_ it had been that he'd lost control…

She creeped her way, cautiously, down the bed, trying not to wake him. She needn't have worried—the bed barely transferred motion, and he was still deeply asleep. And when she finally found herself crouched between his legs, a gentle snore escaping those perfect lips every so often, she swallowed hard, willing herself not to lose her nerve.

And finally, she bent over him, slowly running her tongue up the length of him, flicking it gently against the tip when she reached it. He moaned softly in his sleep—it was muffled, somewhat, by his slack jaw, but it was still more free than the strained moans he'd elicited at the beginning of the evening previous.

Grinning at his reaction, she repeated the motion, and was rewarded with another moan—this one less muffled—and a slight tossing of his head. He was waking up. She drew in a deep breath, and softly took the head into her mouth, sucking softly until his body shuddered softly under her pressure, before moving her mouth further down, sliding him in and out of her mouth in even strokes.

She can feel him harden even more under her administrations, and the muscles in his thighs begin to tense on either side of her. The muscles in his jaw are working next—she speeds up, and another moan breaks from his startled lips as his eyes finally shoot open, moving to her in rapid confusion. But she isn't about to explain herself, or slow down, or stop.

Instead, she places a hand on the base of him, using both her hand and mouth now to work him, and only a second passes until his head drops back down to the pillows and his hands grip into the sheets beneath him, a deep and almost feral groan erupting from his chest as she pauses to play her tongue over him gently, before sliding him back into her mouth, as deep as she can go.

When she moves back to hand and mouth, her rhythm increased, his vocalizations came in a flurry to fast and indescribable and frantic to describe, which Sara figured was probably a sign that she was doing something right. When his hips began to shudder with the effort of not bucking against her mouth and she feels his muscles tighten beneath the thin layer of sweat gracing his beautiful skin, she knows he's close, and takes him deeper into her mouth again, tightening her fingers' grip on him, keeping up the motions until his hands move from the sheets to her hair, gripping almost painfully, his screams of passion blocking out all other sound in the rom.

Upon reaching his climax, his eyes close thoughtlessly—it's truly a struggle to remain aware after a mind-blowing orgasm like the one he had unexpectedly woken up to—but he forces them open again after a moment, trying to get them to focus on the beautiful woman still kneeling between his legs.

At which point he realizes—_she's still kneeling between his legs_. He blinks rapidly, taking in her elegantly disheveled appearance—messy halo of chocolate surrounding the most beautiful of faces, and a perfect, lithe, supple body, naked and bathed in early-morning light, resting at the end of his bed. _Why?_ It's then he becomes aware that something is a little off about her face—her mouth is puckered, her lips pressed tightly together.

A bubble of laughter erupts from his lips as understanding hits him. He can't help it; it's funny! It doesn't hurt that he's on cloud nine and just about everything seems funny in this moment…

"The, uh…" Laughter. "There's a…" More laughter. "The master bathroom is…" Peels of laughter. "Right through…" Hysterics. "…that door."

And she moves to the door immediately, pushing through and letting it close behind her. He chuckles more as he hears water running and the distinct sounds of her rinsing out her mouth. …It was extremely endearing that she didn't want to swallow. It even seemed… strangely innocent. Which was an interesting way to think of the woman who had woken him with her mouth around his manhood, but the thought was there all the same.

He feels positively light-headed.

Sara Sidle had really spent the night with him, and by the looks of things, did not feel regretful about that decision.

...And, he thinks, when she went to his sink to spit and rinse, he fell a little more deeply in love with her.

Odd as that sounds.

But then, the woman had always done crazy things to him…

He didn't know why he thought it would be any different in the bedroom.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: As always, sorry about the delay between updates. All reviews are greatly loved and appreciated. Let me know what you think. :)

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Chapter Seventeen:

I heard her hesitate in the doorway, and chuckled softly, my head still pressed insistently to my pillow, heavy with contentment. I could almost feel the endorphins surging through my body. I felt like I could go back to sleep for hours after what she'd just done to me. "…You almost done in there?" I called teasingly, and her head peeked out. I grinned.

"Good morning, Sara. …I would have said that when I woke up but, uh… I was… _otherwise occupied_." I couldn't help the grin on my face, lazy and languid and thoroughly amused.

She blushed bright red and even smiled, but didn't move. My grin softened into a smile and I sat up. "…What's wrong, honey?"

I didn't understand why she hadn't come back to me… back to bed… after that. She lingered in the doorway, and I slowly let my senses expand—just enough—to try to comprehend. Her heart was racing, her breathing coming fast… her fingers were curling into fists and uncurling again, rapidly, behind the cover of the doorway… She was nervous.

"I, uh…" She doesn't speak, and I frown.

"Sara, come here."

She pads out softly, hands fisted at her side, the blush spreading from her chest to her cheeks and making her all the more endearing. I let my eyes flicker over her small frame, slender and curvy and completely exposed to me…. She was so beautiful. I had wanted this… wanted her… ever since I'd met her, and I had never believed it could be possible… never believed she could be mine.

And if the passion of the previous night were not enough to convince me that she desired me as a man, her actions this morning certainly had…

I extended my hand as she reached the edge of the bed and she took it hesitantly, slipping into the bed and curling against my chest with my gentle tug of encouragement. Her heart was still racing, her breathing coming a touch too quickly. I ran my fingers through her hair and placed a soft kiss into the curls.

"Sara… why… why are you nervous?"

The blush heats its way across her skin again, and her heart beats even faster. She draws a shaking breath. "I, uh… I just… I wasn't sure about your… reaction to… last night and… this morning. You… you were laughing, so…"

I squeeze her tightly, understanding washing over me. My voice comes soft and gentle against her ear, the scent of her hair drifting tantalizingly around me.

"Sara, honey, I… I wasn't laughing at you or what you did for me. It was amazing, waking up to you… to that. I laughed because… It was… sweet, that you just sat there waiting… I, uh… I shouldn't have laughed, but after what I woke up to… I was feeling rather light-hearted. I imagine you could understand such a thing…"

I feel her heart start to calm, and her breath even out. A smile even graces those beautiful lips. She nods hesitantly, and glances up at me with all the shyness and innocence of a virgin the morning after her first time. I capture those lips again, trusting myself enough to let myself remain aware of her body. I slide my hands over her arms, run my fingers into her hair, press my body close…

And luxuriate in the awareness of her heart rate and breathing picking up again… the heat that flashes across her skin, the scent of her arousal and the whimper that comes from the back of her throat, hardly audible, even to me.

I want to return the favor so badly, want to make her whole body tremble and shake simply by the administrations of my lips and tongue, but I don't trust myself… I groan softly and pull myself from her, and she looks up at me breathlessly, confusion in her eyes. I sigh. "I… Sara, I want to… use my mouth on you... God, you couldn't possibly know how badly I want to, but…"

I expect her to stop me, because she usually does when I hesitate in awkward moments, attempting to save me from myself, but instead her deep, dark eyes watch me carefully, waiting. I sigh again.

"I, uh… I'm afraid of… losing control."

Her eyes narrow and I sigh a third time. "I… if I were in such an… intimate position, with you… the smell of you and the taste of you and the feel of you so close… it would be like a… sensual overload. And I would want to… I would probably… I don't think I could not… bite you."

Her eyes widen at my words, but not in fear… just surprise. I arch an eyebrow, trying to understand what's going through her mind… what she thinks of me, now.

"So, for you… is… biting… sexual? Or is sex… like hunting prey? Is… vampirism closer to being an incubus that pop culture shows? "

"No no no… there's no… Sara, you're not… prey. Sexually or physically."

"But… that still means… biting… _is_ sexual."

I purse my lips, thinking, trying to be as clear and honest about this as possible. Because she deserves that. And because I think I'm about to lose her if I don't explain it…correctly.

"…Biting is _sensual_. Have you ever… eaten a chocolate-covered strawberry? Not the hardened chocolate, but a bright, fresh, plump strawberry dipped in warm, melted, rich chocolate…"

She nods, swallowing softly, her eyes locked on me.

"Wasn't the experience, if you were honest with yourself… sensual? The heat and the sweetness of the chocolate mixing with a different kind of sweetness from the juices escaping the strawberry, tingling on your tongue? The swirl and mixture of the sugars and the flavors and the textures as the slid over your tongue… lingered on your lips?"

She nods, and I hear her body responding again. So I know she understands. "Biting… is like that… but my senses are all… stronger than yours. So the lure is greater, because the pleasure of the experience… the experience itself… is greater."

There's a brief moment where she simply looks at me. Then I hear her heart rate increase again, and I tilt my head slowly, trying to understand what has just crossed her mind. She doesn't look afraid… she doesn't look like she's worried I'm going to lose control and bite her. She looks… pensive. Intrigued.

Finally, she rests her head back on the pillows and brushes her hair back behind her shoulder, revealing the slope of her neck and shoulders to my eager eyes—I can see her pulse beating on the delicate skin just below her jaw line… I can see it speed up further as she draws in a deep breath to speak.

"Bite me."


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I don't own.

A/N: Soo, I'm sorry this took so long to update. I wrote this chapter the night I last updated, but I just couldn't decide if this was how I wanted it to happen...

Let me know what you think, since I agonized over my decision forever! :)

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Chapter Eighteen:

I tremble, and though her words are soft, they set off a loud chain reaction—my heart thudding in my chest and my blood rushing in my ears and my breath coming fast and hard. And yet, she lays there, neck exposed, open and vulnerable, eyes closed and trusting.

Without any conscious thought to do so, I feel myself move closer to her until the tip of my nose is running along her neck, her racing pulse louder in my ears than my own… but I hold myself back. I breathe in her scent, I listen intently to her body, and I see the tensed position of her jaw, bracing herself for pain. I turn her head softly so that she's facing me, and her eyes flutter open softly.

I kiss her gently, softly, letting my tongue explore in ways it was too frantic to think of the night before—letting it trace the outline of her lips and jaw, brush against her tongue teasingly, slide along her collar bone and circle each tight, hardened nipple until her labored breathing and arching back indicated she wanted more.

I sucked each of them into my mouth, in turn, sucking hard until desperate gasps broke through her lips, and I was certain that her body was tensed for a myriad of other reasons. I let my fingertips precede my lips in their journey downwards, parting her legs like the petals of a delicate flower and finding myself lost—completely out of control—between them.

The scent of her longing assaulted me, gripped me, making my slow tease almost unbearable for _me_. I had to grip the bed sheets to control myself… to allow myself to kiss along her inner thighs, my tongue flickering over the racing pulse points I found there as well. I could smell her blood here, too, mixed with the musk of sex and sweat… it was the most intoxicating thing to be wrapped up in, accompanied with the rushing sound all around me and her gentle panting coming from above me… there isn't a part of her that seems nervous now.

I've told her what I'll be tempted to do, down here, and yet… she trusts me, completely. She isn't afraid.

I flick my tongue over the bundle of nerves, and her gasp and bucking hips tell me I'm doing something right. Even with the heady influence of her aroma swirling around me, I can smile with a sense of masculine pride at how she desires me… at the fact that I am doing this to her. I draw a circle around the nub and her whole body shakes, a cry breaking through lips I can't see but which I have known intimately for years.

Slowly, my own hands shaking, I run a finger through her folds and draw a circle around her entrance. A soft, broken word comes from above me this time. "…Please…"

I had wanted to go slow… tease her until she could not possibly endure another moment. I had almost broken my resolve to go slow for my own selfish needs and desires, and yet I had managed to restrain myself… but that one word, from this woman's lips… the most amazing, most beautiful woman I had ever known begging me through raw lips to satisfy her… there was no stopping me from fulfilling her every desire, if she asked me like that.

I slid my finger inside her, quickly but still gently, and on the second stroke added another finger, because she was clearly ready for it. I attached my mouth to her clitoris, sucking and teasing, until she was screaming out incoherently, her entire body putty in my hands, and still I would not let her come. She rocked against my fingers, whimpered and moaned and tossed her head, arched her body against my mouth, desperate for release, and I held off, waiting…

Finally, the word I had been waiting to hear again ripped from her lips in an almost painful plea, need evident in each syllable. "Gil… _please_…" And I begin to speed up, thinking this is the end of her sentence… thinking how proud I am of myself that I haven't bitten her yet. That I will in all probability make her come without breaking her delicate, perfect skin. But I'm wrong—she wasn't finished speaking, and she continues, even as her breath hitches with my renewed and stronger attentions. "Bite me."

"Oh god." I mumble against her, the fingers inside her pounding harder but the hand wrapped around myself, gently teasing myself to the sound of her reactions, freezes. She arches up and the shuddering, shaking, aching movements of her body tell me before I hear her keening cry that she's coming. My fingers don't stop, her muscles still clenching around me, and my hand can't help but regain its movements as my head turns and I latch onto the skin of her thigh, the blood rushing in my mouth under the thinnest layer of skin.

I don't bite—I wait for her to come down, both hands still working… but she doesn't stop. She keeps going, as if my fingers are keeping her in a state of constant, earth-shattering, all-consuming bliss that she can't come down from on her own… I have to stop, to bring her down, and good lord I can't stop. I can't stop my fingers and I can't stop the hand pumping me despite how hard I'm trying not to come again, and I can't stop my teeth from clenching around her soft, soft skin, breaking the surface and feeling the delicious, hot, overwhelming pool of her blood into my mouth.

With a scream, I explode, my voice mixing with her desperate moans that have yet to cease and I swallow convulsively, drawing it into my mouth as if it is water from the fountain of youth… ambrosia, food of the gods, the apple from the tree of knowledge in the Garden of Eden. There has never been a greater moment of pleasure my whole life long, and I cling to it, trembling with the force of it.

She tastes like happiness, and fulfillment. Like chocolate covered Strawberries and the bubbles in champagne and the sweetest, ripest of fruits, and like the warmth and comfort of home. She tastes like intimacy and sensuality and pleasure. She tastes like contentment, and safety, and trust. She tastes like love.

I press my tongue to the wound I inflicted, adding pressure to stop the bleeding, reveling in the feel of her pulse under my tongue and the taste lingering in my mouth, and let my fingers slow, taking her down gently, until her body lets out a final, blissful shudder and stills. I replace my tongue with my palm and look up at her, needing to see the deliriously sated expression on her face… needing to reassure myself that this was okay, and that I hadn't hurt her too badly. That this would always be a memory of pleasure rather than pain.

I'm not disappointed. Her head rolls gently on the pillows, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her whole body flushed and limp, spent. I gently take one of her hands, still loosely holding the clump of sheets she had held on to in the throes of passion, and place it over her wound. She blinks several times before she holds her hand there herself, eyes still out of focus.

I chuckle softly, hurrying to the bathroom to bring in a first aid kit and bandage her up before the endorphins stop rushing and she's able to feel the pain. After the wound is cleaned and bound, I gently suck the blood from her hand, where it's beginning to dry, desperate to not lose a drop of the most life-altering, pleasure-inducing elixir known to man, and kiss the rest of the way up her arm, laying beside her and pulling her close to me, cradled in my arms.

She has energy enough for a deep, contented sigh and a flutter of eyelashes, and then she drifts to sleep again. I grin, licking my lips over and over again, savoring the taste, and the moment, and my ridiculously unexpected good fortune.


End file.
